


Blood, Sex, and Steel

by Victorj



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Men Who Built America (TV 2012)
Genre: 1800s, Alternate Universe - Industrial Revolution, F/M, Industrial westeros, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Older Man/Younger Woman, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 63,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28847472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victorj/pseuds/Victorj
Summary: The year is 1870 and the country is trying to grow after multiple wars had left it in  rubble. An industrial boom is only years away and Twyin Lannister is the ruthless and rich railroad baron of Westeros. He tries to strike a deal with Ned Stark, an up-and-coming oilman who is eager to fill the Lannister's trains with his fuel. Meanwhile, the Baratheon's are trying to buy the Starks out from beneath the Old Lion as they develop the first automobiles and they realize they need a way to power both the cars and the assembly lines to make them. In the south, the Tyrells grow their agricultural powerhouse, the Tulley's are working on the first sparks of sustainable electricity, and the Bolton's steel is warred over by everyone.But at the root of all of this scheming and power is one girl, Sansa Stark. A girl who has, quite literally, become one of the most valuable pawns in this coal-fueled game.  When a contract is breeched, how will the richest man in Westersos react? And will he be surprised to find that the beautiful little pawn isn't as insignificant or as naïve as he originally thought?
Relationships: Tywin Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 81
Kudos: 204





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know who all is a history buff out there, but here is by guide for this first chapter. 
> 
> Tywin Lannister: Cornelius (The Commodore) Vanderbilt  
> Ned Stark: John D. Rockefeller
> 
> The country described is closer to Westeros than the US in the 1870's. There will be some things based on fact, but by this is NOT an accurate story in both historic timeline and ASOIAF cannon. Thank you guys so much for reading!

Tywin 1870

There are two things that fuel the world. Money and sex. They are coals in the fire, driving history forward with every bold decision and strategy. Every war, every betrayal that has moistened the earth’s crust with a thick layer of blood could be traced back to those two forces. Men seemed destined to rip each other to shreds for one or the other…sometimes both. Pillaging came with raping and bribes weren’t always coins in one’s purse or cash in their wallet. Sometimes people lie to themselves, believe that their good fortune is self-made, that perhaps fate had smiled at them out of organic good luck and honorable action. 

But…at its core, it was, and always will be, money and sex. Coin and flesh. Power and influence. 

Tywin Lannister just wished people would see that. Come to terms with it. That’s what he had done, after all. And here he sat upon his throne of iron rail and coal, the richest man in the country. People groveled beneath his feet, whispering and pleading for favors or gifts, their eyes glinting with jealous hope. 

Typically, they were ignored until he felt the need to move forward with a deal, whether it be a blessing or a curse. However, today one had slipped through the cracks. 

In the lazy noon light, Tywin sat at his desk, tapping the rounded leather arm of his chair with an impatient thumb as he watched the man in front of him lick his lips nervously, his watery eyes darting away from where he sat. Tywin narrowed his own eyes and sniffed out the hesitation like it was rot on carrion. It stunk. And soon it would start to linger. 

“Seems to me, Frey,” he drawled, unblinking, “That you are reneging on our previous agreement.” 

Frey shrugged, an action that Tywin didn’t appreciate. It was uncommitted, a form of hapless self-want without the words or courage to back it up. 

“Just seems to me that your railroad needs to cross my river. I own the sixty miles to the north and the south, re-routing your track is going to be expensive. I don’t like the original numbers.” 

Tywin didn’t answer right away. Instead, he propped his chin up on his hand, his index finger extended on the side of his nose. “Hmm. I see…you don’t like the deal now.” Tap, tap, went the thumb to the leather. Light glinted off of the rubies of his cufflinks.The noise bumped through the room like the metronome of his own annoyance. 

“Does the water in your stretch of the river still run red, Frey?” Tywin finally asked. His face showed no emotion. 

Walder was not a large man, and he hunched forward in his old age. His river provided him water for milling and the years spent hunched over to improve his machinery had left him small and compact like a crumpled bill. “What?” 

“I asked you if the blood of both Union and Southern soldiers has still stained your river red. How long did production cease during the battle of the Twins? A week?” 

Frey’s eyes narrowed. “The water is flowing, the current washed it away.” 

Tywin’s face was stone, yet his eyes glinted like lethal little emeralds. “Oh, but what of the cows and the horses? The bodies rotting away tangled in the underwater branches? The gunpowder and the wooden shards that cannot pass through your mills? How long has production been halted while the banks are cleared?” 

Walder’s face puckered in an unpleasant and sour twist. 

Tywin continued, only now deciding to blink, deliberate and slow. 

“It’s been a wet spring, hasn’t it? And I have no doubt that your silos were damaged by cannon and fire, or at the bare minimum your notorious lack of care,” the Lion mused, “How long until your grain rots?” The gentle thumping of his thumb against his armrest continued, “That is, if it hasn’t already.” 

Silence hung between them and Frey’s uncomfortable shifting caused the leather on his seat to squeak. His worn leather shoes twisted against the ivory and ebony floor tiles of Tywin’s study. It did not go unnoticed by the Old Lion. His eyes bore in to crippled Walder Frey, stabbing like two iron pikes through his chest. He held the old man there, suspended by his own judgement and impatience. 

“Who will ship your rotten grain? Milled by your tainted water?” Tywin asked, the thumping thumb now curled into a fist. He rubbed the metal of the ring he wore on his index finger. He shifted in his seat and the chain of his pocket watch dangled from his waistcoat. “If you are foolish enough to refuse my offer, then I will see to it that no shipment of anything tied to the Riverlands will ever travel by my trains.” 

Walder’s watery eyes glanced to the oak of Tywin’s desk. Avoidance was as unpleasant to the Commodore as cowardice and Tywin took no joy in the knowledge that he was right, that he was winning. To him there was no competition and Frey needed discipline just like his unruly children had when they were young. 

Only Frey was old enough to know better. 

“You have lost profit from this war. You have been damaged. And my offer was generous at the time, but now it will be even less so. Consider it a charge for wasting my time. Be glad I am not insulted,” Tywin said quietly. Frey didn’t deserve the energy it took to growl. “The railroad will cross through the Riverlands, at the narrowest point, as previously agreed.” 

Walder did not speak as he stood, realizing he had been dismissed quite unceremoniously. He hobbled out with an ebony cane that was much to flashy for him. Tywin watched him go before leaning forward and looking at the columns in his ledger. Inside he was seething, angered by Frey’s assumption that he could just shuffle in and demand more money. It itched at him, causing him to turn his neck from side to side to stretch the tension from his cords. The pressed stiff collar of his suit dug into his jugular and he dipped his chin to feel the silk of his ascot, gold flecked with red. 

“Clegane!” Tywin called, his voice booming and traveling easily to the man who stood on the other side of his door. 

The response was quick, as he liked it. He made Sandor Clegane wait while he finished with his column. Sandor waited dutifully, a large man with a face marred by a barn fire when he was a younger man. He was a good worker, clawing his way up from heavy fisted brawlers and baton happy Pinkertons. And he stood in his wool vest and rolled sleeves, dutifully and silently until acknowledged. 

Finally looking up as he placed his fountain pen back in the inkwell, Tywin calmly asked, “How did Frey get to my office today?” 

Clegane knew better than to response with a cheeky answer. “He informed your staff he had a scheduled meeting to speak about the Riverland Purchase.” 

Tywin’s eyes were hard and his lips pursed. “Which staff?” 

“That secretary of yours.” 

“Ah.” Tywin stood up and approached his bar cart, gilded gold and black cherry wood. Cognac sloshed in the crystal decanter and he poured it neat, no rocks. “Bring Tyrion in here.” It was not a request. Tywin’s back was to his hired man, so he didn’t watch Clegane turn on his large bootheel and stomp back out the door. 

Acrid sweetness coated his tongue as he sipped the cognac and waited for his little son. The gardens stretched out before him, rosebushes and hedges, a fountain springing from its center like the famous geyser in the west. Tywin found himself longing for the mountains and valleys of the Westernlands from his youth, but there was no time for memories today. 

“Hello, dear father,” came the self-indulgent voice of Tyrion Lannister. 

Tywin turned and made a point to dip his chin to regard his dwarfed offspring, his mop of unruly curls gelled back with the pomade that was so popular for the time. The Old Lion’s lip curled with the slickness of it. 

“Sit,” he said in response to a greeting. 

Tyrion did as told, looking so comfortable in his father’s decadent chairs. He eyed the glass of alcohol with a spark of jealousy and Tywin ignored it, deliberately withholding an offer. 

Lannister strode to his chair, sipping once or twice more before coming to stand behind the desk. Sucking the alcohol against his teeth, he set his glass down on a coaster and glared across the desk from his son. 

“She’s fired,” he finally said. 

Tyrion had his father’s knack for holding an impassive face. “Who might that be? The maid? Because I whole-heartedly agree…my washroom today was filth-”

“Your whore,” Tywin interrupted with a growl, leaning down and propping himself up with his long arms on the desk. He loomed over his son like a stork over a newt. “That girl I provided work. You told me she would be an adequate secretary.” 

His son’s face darkened before him and Tywin was reminded how he pouted as a boy, stubby arms crossed and legs kicking. Tyrion had always hated being told no. 

“Shae? What did she do?” 

Tywin huffed, his bristled jaw set. Much to his namesake, Frey had rubbed his nerves raw and he felt the annoyance prick like tiny needles in his muscles. “She let Walder Frey waltz in here and demand a new proposal.” 

Waving his arms dramatically, Tywin tipped his head back, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, father. He’s a snake. He’d trick your best man and you know it.” 

“But he didn’t trick my best man, did he?” Tywin replied evenly. “He persuaded some lowbrow, emptyheaded secretary that is sitting at my front desk as a favor to you. If she can be convinced that Walder Frey is a man worth listening to then I am far less than impressed.” 

Tyrion was quiet, brooding, and Tywin knew he had gotten beneath his skin, as delicate as he knew it to be. 

“Get rid of her.” 

Tywin’s son’s mouth opened in protest and was met with green eyes that were warning. “Fine,” he conceded, “but can I put her in the kitchens? Perhaps with the maid staff? I told her she could work.” 

Sneering, Tywin Lannister straightened from his desk and took a swig of his drink. “How many favors must you ask of me? I’m not interested in having my son’s whoring muse on my payroll.” 

Tyrion shrugged. “I’ll pay her wages.” 

The glass froze, the crystal barely touching Tywin’s thin lips. There was a pause, a heartbeat…perhaps two, before he quietly asked, “But who pays yours, Tyrion?” His breath fogged the glass. 

No response would be appropriate, so Tyrion sat in silence. 

The drink was finished without wincing. “I want her gone,” Tywin stated deliberately. “By the end of the day.” 

His son’s mouth was clenched in anger and he stared at his father as he gauged the severity of the demand. He was known to push boundaries, testing their elasticity as far as he could before they either snapped free or smarted his skin. But, over the years and especially against his father, Tyrion noticed a losing fight when he saw one. 

“Anything else, Father?” The words left his lips sarcastic and dripping. 

Tywin was unfazed. He sat down and closed one of his ledgers. The paper was thick ivory cardstock that soaked up the ink quickly. “Actually, yes. Your nephew is wanting his birthday party on the grounds by the end of the week and I want you to oversee it.” 

The insult added to Tyrion’s injury and he huffed. “Don’t you believe that it would be appropriate to have Cersei handle the party planning? I’m not much for…organized…celebrations, father.” 

“While that may be,” Tywin replied, “You know how to value guests. If your sister took over it would be decadent, tacky, and far too much for what that boy deserves.” The thought of his pouting, sour little grandson smugly stomping around the mansion curled Tywin’s lip. The family seemed to forget quite regularly that they were staying as guests, albeit long-term ones. Casterly Rock had been purchased by blood and iron money, the coal from his railroads providing a nice foundation of wealth and decadence. Tywin respected it, the old walls and the historic beams. However, his ungrateful daughter and her brood routinely pretended they were the rightful owners as well. Cersei seemed to forget about that little farmhouse she and her brother were born into, crying and waving their fat little arms against the scratchy straw mattress while his wife chased away the rats. 

Joanna never saw Tywin’s money, the life he had worked so hard for. He remembered whispering to her about it as he wiped the sweat off her brow while she wailed and cried in childbirth. 

“Your work is now, then you will rest and it will be my turn,” he had said. 

But she still died in that dirty little house. And now his grandchildren had no idea of what it meant to work hard. Especially Joffrey…his hands were the softest of all and his voice was always shrill with complaint. 

And once the spoiled boy turns twenty, he will consider himself a man. 

And if Tywin’s patience was thin for boys, it was nonexistent for men. 

Tyrion’s voice pulled him from his memory and he was suddenly reminded why his lady wife had never been given the chance to bask in his riches. His dwarf son was oblivious and Tywin had to remind himself of that. 

“Perhaps Littlefinger or Varys will be better in planning a party.” 

A rush of air from his nostrils and Tywin worked his jaw before he finally decided to stand up. “Look,” he barked, “Littlefinger and Varys are already planning catering and booze. I just need you to make sure everything is up to snuff because I’m using this party as an excuse to contact a few possible investors.” 

Raising his eyebrows, Tyrion nodded knowingly. “Never miss an opportunity, do you, father?” 

“You seem happy to reap in the reward of my ‘opportunities,’ don’t you think?” the Lion growled. 

Tyrion held up his hands and Tywin looked away from his small fingers. “I will assist. I’ll make sure the banners and streamers are hung and the place looks top notch…but only if you still let Shae work.” 

Anger spiked up through Tywin’s gullet hot like the poker that sat next to his hearth. He leaned over his desk, long fingers splayed flat against the wood surface. His watch chain dangled and Tywin’s flashing green eyes glared hatefully at his son. Tyrion met his gaze, doing his best to keep his composure. Years of being pushed down by his father had nurtured his argumentative streak. 

“Hear no evil, see no evil, my boy,” the Old Lion rumbled, his lips barely moving in the subtlest of sneers. “If you want her here, fine. But if I see her… if I even catch a glance of that tangled brown hair or if I even hear that foreign voice coming from my kitchens, or my washroom, or my garden…you’re going to wish you sent her away a long time ago.” 

His lips were curled in a snarl. “So gamble with that as you will. And know this, you may be my blood, but I will never allow you to give me an ultimatum again. Is that understood?” 

“Yes,” the reply wasn’t weak, but it was quiet with understanding. Tyrion slid off the chair. He tried his best to look unbothered by his father’s warning, brushing off his suit coat and tugging at his vest. A subject change was sorely needed. “So who is it that you are trying to impress?” 

Looking at his watch and deciding to have lunch, Tywin walked past his son and towards the large oak door. He rapped on the wood once with his ring and the butler on the other side silently pulled it open. Tywin waited for his son to come to the door so he could watch him leave. 

“Oilman,” the tall man finally called as Tyrion made his way out into the sprawling entry room and parlor of the mansion. Tywin glanced to the left and was pleased to see the secretary desk empty. “From the North. He’s been having luck with his rigs and his kerosene and I want to ship them.” 

Tyrion would never admit it, but he had the same hunger for business that his father had. His interest was piqued. “Young?” 

“Not young enough to be foolish, old enough for a family, which might complicate things,” Tywin mused, momentarily forgetting about his outburst. Out of all of his children, Tyrion was the only one with a sharp enough wit to follow along with the deals and the contracts. 

The blessings and the curses. The partners and the enemies. 

“Family’s name is Stark. Ned Stark.” 

Tyrion nodded. “Stark Oil been growing exponentially in the last six months. I see why you’re interested,” he reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out his silver cigarette tin. Knowing better than to light it in the house, Tyrion walked towards the front door. Tywin watched him pause, then turn and say, “I’ll do my best with the house. But, dear father… if you want to invite the whole Stark family for the weekend, I suggest you urge my sister to reign in Joffrey. If you can manage.” 

And with that Tyrion walked away, patting his hands on the sides of his head to smooth out his slicked curls. Tywin watched him go, his mouth neither frowning nor smiling. He was too busy thinking about what was to come, the handshakes and courtesies. The Old Lion had been out of the game for a while, relying on his brute force to make new contracts. The Starks were going to be something different and refreshing. An equal, or at the bare minimum, a challenge. 

He just hoped that Ned Stark was a smart enough man to recognize a generous deal when one was offered. 


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do apologize if you guys find this boring, I'm trying my best to flesh things out and not make them seen rushed or unrealistic. I'm grateful for the interest and the comments! Wasn't expecting them quite so soon!

Immediately, Joffrey had found something to complain about, pointing at the streamers with a curled nose. “Cloth? Why not tinsel? That shiny new stuff that’s at all the other parties and parades?”

Tywin worked his jaw, standing straight-backed on the top of the marble garden steps. He turned his head to regard his daughter, who glowed in the activity and bustle that was for her ungrateful son. Her day gown was a light blush and a straw and lace hat was pinned to the top of her coiled and curled hair. The two youngest of her children, Tommen and Myrcella were running around the gardens, darting in and out of rose bushes and the maze hedge. They seemed to be enjoying the day, but they were still young and grateful. 

“Perhaps, Joffrey,” Tywin suggest brusquely as he turned his attention back to his oldest grandson, “We could go all the way to the city and fetch you some Ticker Tape, would that please you?” 

Joffrey recognized the criticism and instead of feeling foolish he felt annoyed. Defensive. 

“The cloth is old fashioned.” 

“Well then, I’m old fashioned.” 

Joffrey scanned the back garden trying to find something else to complain about. He stomped off with a huff, the tailored lines of his suit making him look thin and reedy. Sunlight glinted off of his blond head and he picked his way over to the buffet. He looked like the bright little light that was reflected off a mirror. 

“He’s just excited, father,” Cersei cooed, turning and gazing at her father as she lazily waved her paper fan to combat the heat of the first truly warm day of the waning spring. A thin smile was painted across her lips, yet it did not quite meet her eyes. “He wants to make sure his guests are impressed.” 

Tywin pursed his lips, not looking at his daughter. “The fact that his friends and their families are setting foot at Casterly should be impression enough.” 

Sighing, Cersei reached down and tugged at the hem of her silk glove. “He feels badly that his party is to entertain business guests. He was looking forward for the day to be spent with his friends and family.” 

Not even finding the worth in a response, Tywin clasped his hands behind his back and turned on his heel to walk back into the sunroom of the estate. He seated himself on the wrought iron garden furniture and summoned the help. “Gin and tonic,” he requested, glancing out of the glass panes at his property as it was prepared to host tribute to his grandson. Cersei joined him, her silk dress flowing silently with each step. She sat elegantly across from him, forcing him to look at her instead of out the window. A deliberate move. 

“If his crowd gets rowdy, Clegane has orders to break things up.” 

Snorting, his daughter chided, “Joffrey is a good boy. He will just be having fun.” 

“You seem to forget the money I had to give to Yale just to forgive the damages after one lost rugby game.” 

Cersei’s lips tightened in a hard line. She appeared very still in front of her father, but he noticed how her pearl earrings trembled ever so slightly. A highball glass sweating with condensation was placed in front of him. He waved the steward away before Cersei could request a drink. He sipped, savored the bright refreshment, and then flashed his eyes at his very visibly irked child. 

“There is something wrong,” he said flatly, rubbing the gold band of his ring with his thumb. “Let me take a guess. It is not Joffrey who feels badly that I am using this party to meet with a client’s family, it is you. You want your boy to have his special, doting day and the thought of me not being a part of the fan club upsets you.” 

Cercsei cocked her head but she did not show her ire. She was like her father in that way. “I just assumed that, as his grandfather, and his only living grandparent, you would be more involved in your grandson’s birthday. But instead you decide to disregard him in order to prioritize a group of Northern strangers.” 

Tywin’s eyebrows rose as he took another sip of his drink. He wiped the moisture from the glass off his fingers and onto his trouser leg. Canaries chirped in a cage in the corner of the sunroom. “What do you think the customs are for widows in the North, hm?” her father pondered, his emeralds glinting. The nonchalance of the musing was only paper thin and a dark colored warning lurked beneath. She recognized it right away. “How long do you think they wear their mourning black? Surely longer than three months, one would think.” 

Deliberately, Tywin looked at his daughter’s dress, feminine, flashy, and paid for by his money. Her collarbones were exposed, as was most of her chest. It was tailor made, just like everything his children and grandchildren wore. “Is that why you are worried about making small talk with Northern strangers and their first impressions? Do you think they will whisper about you and your late husband?" 

She fumed, “You know rumors do nothing to bother me.” 

“Oh, my dear, I know all too well. But sometimes we should at least listen and contemplate them, don’t you think?” Tywin took no pleasure in testing his daughter, but it was something that needed to happen at least now and again. She had a nastiness in her that it seemed only he could keep in check. And despite his best efforts he had lost many good employees to her venom. She favored subtle words and these verbal games, responded better to them than just outright warnings and demands. 

Her next sentence was one of weakness, and she knew it. “Will Jaime be coming home?” 

Irked, Tywin stirred his glass. “He was on the train to fetch the Starks. I assume he will be here.” 

Silence hung between them, only peppered by the chirps of the canaries and the voices of the groundskeepers. When Tywin’s gin and tonic was consumed, he stood, signaling that he was finished with this conversation. However, he managed to provide his daughter with at least some peace of mind. 

“I understand it is a big day for Joffrey. Twenty is an important age. I will entertain the Starks for most of the afternoon, but for the cake cutting and gift giving, I will be there for him, alright?” 

“Thank you,” came the polite reply as Cersei stood from the table as well. She brushed past him and back out onto the large garden steps. Tywin watched as she elegantly glided to the outdoor bar. Champagne was handed to her without prompting and Tywin fished out his pocket watch. It was technically noon so he decided it would be easier to allow the early drink than it would be to prevent it. He had other things to worry about. 

As he stood in his sunroom, the Stark family was hurtling their way to the Casterly Rock train station. They would be seated in the finest first class cabin, their tickets paid for and lunch would be served to them on silver platters with the Casterly Railroad Company lion etched on the center. Ned Stark would eat with silverware embellished with TL and dab at his mouth with cloth napkins embroidered with red and gold. 

Tywin had no doubt it would be enough to entice Stark to sign his contract. 

By three in the afternoon, Tywin found himself standing out in the carriage port, black suitcoat soaking up much of the late afternoon’s sun. However his tan trousers provided him some relief and he was thankful for the tophat’s brim to provide some shade over his eyes. When the sun became too bothersome, Tywin ducked back into the arch by the front doors, sheltered from the heat and easy to walk past without notice. From this spot, he was able to watch the arrivals. 

Carriages had been coming and going for the better part of the afternoon. Scrubby groundskeepers darted out into the gravel between the gaps of the horses, quickly scooping up the many piles of manure that were left by the large animals so the driveway appeared clear and immaculate. His grandson’s guests would tumble out, most of them youngsters, waving off the butlers and the servants as they boldly entered Tywin’s home in search of the party. Yale blue sweaters, modern cut tailcoats, and hats were tossed at his staff and on the floor. 

Clegane stood next to him, glaring at the young men every chance he got, his arms crossed and a wool cap pulled down low despite the heat of the day. “Couldn’t they have had a party at the billiard hall?” he grumbled, not quite to Tywin but not quite to himself. 

“Formality, Clegane,” Tywin urged. 

The brute lifted his hat and scratched at the top of his head, “Right.” He then skulked away, muttering about walking a perimeter or checking the carriage houses or something like that but the Old Lion wasn’t listening. Instead, his attention was held by searching for one cab in particular 

Tywin’s hand gripped the head of his cane just a little tighter as he saw the maroon lacquered body of his carriage round the corner and make its way up the drive, pulled by four cream colored horses. A man was seated up by the driver, his boot propped up against the front of the bench. His son, Jaime. 

Approaching the port, Jaimie slipped from the bench, agile and fit, and rounded the horses to come to Tywin. He could smell the sweat on the beasts back and they shifted their weight from hoof to hoof, big lips flapping against the bits. 

“How were they?” Tywin asked, giving the smallest of nods to the carriage as the driver climbed from the bench, adjusted his waistcoat, and unfolded the iron step. 

“More kids than what I had expected,” Jaimie answered, reaching up to smooth his hair. He had kept it long after the war, parted down the middle and straight like straw. His buckskin boots were worn and scuffed, but the trousers tucked into them seemed clean and orderly. Jaimie had always favored the styles of the gentleman hunter, muddled greens, tans, navies, maybe some red when he felt flashy. 

He pulled out a corncob pipe from his pocket, fishing in the other for matches. “Didn’t think they would all fit in there, but they managed. I guess two stayed home, the youngest ones.” 

“That can wait,” his father ordered, his chin tipped upwards as he watched the first of the Starks come from the cab. With a shrug and a turn on his heal, Jaime strode thought the open entryway of Casterly Rock, searching for the party and a place where he could smoke without his father’s reproach. 

Ned’s wife was first, older than he expected, but beautiful all the same. Good genetics and bone structure, which he admired. A young man followed, his upper lip covered in a neat moustache. Brown hair glinting auburn sprouted head, ungreased, curly and natural. His chin was jutted upwards as he avoided the carriage man’s hand. No help for him, he was strong and unimpressed by the mansion, the train, and the carriage. All he cared about was staying close to his mother, scanning around to make sure their environment was safe. Tywin watched as their eyes met briefly, brown to green, and the youngster glanced away, upwards to the molded copper ceiling of the carriage port. Taking it in, hiding that he was impressed. 

Tywin watched as another sullen-faced boy stepped out. As the Old Lion watched closely he realized that he wasn’t a boy, but a man like the first, but his round face and soft eyes made him appear younger than he actually was. A small girl followed, short hair straight and pinned back. She was the true opposite of Myrcella. Blonde hair to black, green doe eyes compared to sharp little dark ones, piercing and jaded. She moved quickly and sharply, darting this way and that, jumping down from the carriage and ignoring the steps. Tywin was amused to see that she wore trousers and little buckled shoes, not a dress. 

He watched as yet another hand reached to the carriage tender, slender and white, with long fingers like that of the ivory keys of his piano. This one was another woman, moving slowly and deliberately as if every step, sway, and blink was planned. She unfurled herself from the carriage, taller than her mother, paler as well, but not sickly. He watched closely as she gently reached up and adjusted her hat with her free hand as she stepped from the carriage. She wore navy, which complimented her complexion, but the coolness of the fabric made Tywin’s eyes flick to her thickly rich red hair, deeper and brighter than anything he had seen outside of the Irish maids that scuttled through his galleys. 

Finally, Ned Stark stepped through the door, all broad shoulders and heavy brow. He was a simple man of business, and as Tywin looked at his cotton shirt and wool waistcoat, he knew that Ned was new to wealth. New money was hard to gauge, the Old Lion mused, his jaw set as he watched the family gather and shift from foot to foot. Sometimes they were eager to learn and grow, other times they were brash. But he was pleased to see that the patriarch of the Stark family seemed to be thoughtful and cautious. Tywin would’ve been disappointed to see someone with flashy silks and finery. 

“Welcome to Casterly,” Tywin called, stepping from his spot tucked away by the front doors. They had been propped open to welcome the summer breeze and linen curtains billowed gently. Stepping down the stone stairs, Tywin held out his hand to Ned. “I trust your ride was enjoyable?” 

Ned accepted the handshake and his grip was firm. “Yes, more than enjoyable. Much more than we are accustomed to.” 

Tywin absorbed his words, his eyes flitting from Stark to Stark. More than they were accustomed to…Ned Stark was very new to money indeed and his age was a good sign. He was used to hard work with little pay off so he was wise to notice Tywin’s generosity. 

“This must be your family.” No compliments or gushes, just observations. Every word would need to be well placed, with intension only known by Tywin himself. The game had started the moment Ned Stark had stepped out of that cab and now each word had a purpose and each action would be deliberate. Each sentence, exclamation, cough, sip, step, and touch would be accounted for, no matter how minute. 

Ned held out a hand for his wife. “This is Catelyn, my wife. I know I’ve mentioned her in our correspondence.” 

“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Lannister, I don’t know how we can thank you for this experience. You are a very generous man,” the words were stiff and unfeeling with politeness. Catelyn Stark seemed to remember the words from the charm school of her youth, but her delivery needed work. She was a strong woman, born from generations of hard work, and Tywin became very much aware that the two worked as a team. Even if Ned’s wife wasn’t in the room, Lannister had no doubt that he routinely sought her council. He would have to remember that in the meetings to come. 

“My sons, Robb and Jon,” Ned continued, motioning towards the two curly-haired boys. Catelyn shifted her weight from one foot to the other and glanced down to her skirts. The action didn’t go unnoticed and Tywin catalogued it in the back of his head as he shook both of the men’s hands. Both were quiet. 

“And my daughters. Arya,” Ned pointed to the dark eyed little wild one, “and Sansa.” Sansa curtsied and she seemed nervous. Tywin gave a curt little nod, dipping his chin to try and meet her eyes. She looked at him fleetingly and he noticed they were a bright and clear blue. “Thank you so much for extending your invitation to us. I hope that we are not an inconvenience to your home or business,” she chimed and her voice sounded like a dove’s song, nice and gentle to the ear. No shrillness or high pitched giggling, no stutter or mumble. This girl was cultured and he liked that. Whatever governess Sansa had did a wonderful job with her etiquette and Tywin found himself feeling more impressed with Ned Stark’s daughter than he did with Ned himself. 

Well…as far as first impressions went, that is. 

“Well,” Tywin said, turning away from Sansa Stark and coming back to her father. “If you all would like to follow me I would be happy to have the staff show your family where they can find some festivities and hospitality while you and I have a talk.” 

Ned looked at Cat who gave him a soft smile and a subtle nod before looping her hand through his arm. Tywin watched and then turned away, stepping back up the stairs. The metal tip of his cane tapped against the stone steps. The entry room of Casterly Rock was large and cavernous with marble tile and parlor furniture to the right and the large oak doors of his office to the left. Straight ahead were three steps, wide, before a thin expanse of tiled floor and multiple French doors neatly lined in a row, open and overlooking the massive back patio. People milled about, chatting and smiling, drinking and gossiping. Tywin’s servants flowed through the crowd like trout darting through a stream, white tux’s and arms propping up trays of champagne and treats. 

“Please forgive the crowd,” Tywin mused, watching as the Stark’s craned their necks this way and that to take in just one part of his home. “It is my grandson’s twentieth birthday today. I wanted to be sure that there would be activities for your whole family when I invited you out.” “Sansa just turned twenty This year as well,” Ned offered. 

“Well,” Tywin hummed, taking his hat in his hand and glancing at Sansa, “You two might just get along, then.” 

In truth, he hoped that Sansa would be able to just disappear in the crowd and be missed by Joffrey. His grandson did not have the best track record with lovely young women and the last thing Tywin needed was another set of angry parents, let alone a potential business partner. 

“Please enjoy yourselves,” Lannister urged as he held his arm to guide Ned’s family out onto the back patio. “The garden is just starting to blossom this time of year and I would strongly recommend a walk through the hedges.” During these formalities, Tywin did not smile once. His tone was light, welcoming, but he was not one to plaster false grins on his face in order to comfort his guests. The Starks seemed strong enough to not need it. 

As the family cautiously moved to the party, Tywin watched as Ned gave Catelyn a chaste kiss on the cheek. She glanced at Tywin’s tall frame and then back at Ned before giving an odd little nod of the head. His sons followed her, Jon lagging behind while Robb fell into step next to his mother. The little one, Arya, had already disappeared like a little cat. The last to leave the entryway was Sansa, who held her hands in front of her nervously, her back straight and rigid. Tywin watched, more than a little curious, as she sucked her breath in as if she were about to dive into a pool. With her chin held up in resolve, Sansa moved out to the party and Tywin noticed heads turn to look at her. 

Regardless of their business practices, Tywin admired that Ned and Catelyn Stark made good children. When he caught a glimpse of Tyrion laughing and waving his little arms as he exaggerated a story, Tywin was reminded of just how well his own breeding had rewarded him and suddenly his mouth turned bitter. 

With the pleasantries out of the way, Tywin led Ned to his office where they could finally speak business. 


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys all so much for the kind words! I hope you all continue to enjoy this story as much as i am starting to. Comments are always appreciated.

In preparation for the day’s meeting, Tywin had slightly rearranged his office, placing the bar cart next to his desk and moving the two leather, highbacked chairs off to the corner by the fireplace and turned towards each other with a circular coffee table in between. This created a more even appeal, as if the two men were on the same level. A silly little comfort that often worked out in his favor when making deals. Once the contract was signed, back to normal. All other meetings would be held in the formal manner, with Tywin seated behind his oaken plateau of a desk and reminding the poor bastard who was in charge. Sometimes they didn’t take too well to the change, their feelings hurt after assuming that they had been friends after the informal first impression. This kept them in line.

But Ned Stark didn’t seem to eager to be sitting so close to Tywin. He had automatically moved towards the desk until Tywin pointed to the chairs while he stepped into the office and placed his hat and coat on the rack, his cane placed in the holder beneath. 

“What’s your poison?” Tywin asked after everything was in its place and he moved to the bar cart. “I have scotch, bourbon, cognac, wine….” 

“Nothing for me, thank you,” Stark declined, standing next to the chair. He would sit when Tywin would sit. 

Lannister turned away and placed the crystal stopper back in the decanter. He held his own cognac and checked his pocket watch without really caring to know what the time was. It was a delay, something to slow things down while he planned what to do next, how to move and how to sit down. When he walked past Ned and leaned over to set his glass on a coaster, Tywin noticed that Stark was not a tall man necessarily, but he was solid. Strong. Tywin himself was several inches taller than him, as he usually was when compared to most people. But he was thinner, leaner to Ned’s frame that had been padded by years of labor. 

“Sit, please,” offered Tywin as he casually waved his hand to the chair. Ned sat first. “Is the room comfortable for you? Would you like me to open a window?” 

“No thank you.” Gracious. Stark would adapt to his environment, not the other way around. Good sign. 

As Tywin settled in his chair and crossed his long legs, he hoped that Ned was aware of his own story of hard work and scrabbling up the ladder, as every new up-and-comer did. It was the true folk tale of success. The two men were equal in the fact that neither of them had been born with soft hands and fine clothes. 

“My son, Jaime, tells me that you have some children back in the North, I hope you don’t think that they would’ve been an inconvenience. We have plenty of room and staff for the whole family.” 

Ned paused as if weighing the pros and cons of providing Tywin with personal information. Tywin took a drink as he waited patiently, but he would not change the subject. 

“Yes,” Stark finally answered. “My two youngest sons, Bran and Rickon. Bran became ill last year and doesn’t take to traveling well and Rickon is still far too young to be so far away from home. They will stay and study.” 

“Ill?” 

“Polio, affected his legs, I’m afraid.” 

A response to that would be cheap and insincere and they both knew it. So Tywin asked a different question. “Do all of your children go to school?” 

“Home tutors, however my eldest daughter has requested to go to the nearby university to sit in lessons and classes.” 

“Impressive,” Tywin hummed, picturing the girl sitting shyly in the back of the class with her ridged posture and shy eyes. “A woman going to university classes.” 

“Mathematics and business, mostly. Sometimes literature.” 

Tywin raised his eyes and gave a surprised little expression to Ned. “And the two eldest boys?” 

Ned shifted in his seat. He had not been prepared to speak so openly of his family, but he supposed that business partners needed to know at least something about each other. “Robb is working on becoming an officer and Jon…Jon is still deciding what to do, business or military.” 

“My son is an officer, perhaps we should introduce them,” Tywin mused with no intention of actually doing so. There was a pause as the Old Lion set the pace. Content with the number of pleasantries now out of the way, he decided it was truly time to get to business. 

“So, Mr. Stark, it has come to my understanding that your refineries are starting to become fairly profitable, is that correct?” 

“We are doing alright.” 

Tywin waved his hand. “No need for modesty, I don’t make deals with ‘alrightness’ I make deals with profitable investments.” 

“Yes, Mr. Lannister,” Ned answered evenly, “we are tapping into more oil than what our area needs.” 

“You have oversaturated your territory. So, that’s where I come in, yes?” Tywin said, his eyes glinting as he leaned back into his comfortable chair and cradled his lowball. “I want something to ship. And you need someone to ship.” 

“That is the case, yes.” 

Tywin gave no smile, but he cocked his head to the side slightly. The light reflected off his stubbled jaw and exposed the red-ish tint of the bristles. His foot of his crossed leg bobbed in time to a song that Stark couldn’t hear. “So here is my proposal. I will provide you a rate for each barrel of your oil. This will be a flat rate that includes loading, shipping, and unloading. My railroads stretch the farthest than anyone else in the country. Homes in Dorne could be powered by your kerosene.” 

Stark paused while he absorbed his words. “How much?” Stark asked. He was forcing Tywin’s hand, to come up with the number first. Tywin’s eyes narrowed. 

This had always been the tricky part. Too high a number would insult him, and too low a number could end up being a spear in Tywin’s own side. He needed to navigate in the center. 

“Three gold pieces.” 

Ned looked away, straight ahead into the nothingness and Tywin waited. 

“One gold piece and three silver.” 

Tywin scoffed and took a drink. The burn of the alcohol on his tongue invigorated him and he felt the rush of adrenaline course through him. The desire to win was filling him up like liquid gold and Tywin clutched at it. “I’m an efficient man, Mr. Stark. If my workers must fumble with different coins that will slow inventory and loading to a near crawl. Your oil may not have an expiration date, but the patience of my foremen does.” 

Stark didn’t respond, but Tywin watched as he tapped his heal. He felt like the lion of his company, lazily watching a sick antelope wander close enough to be plucked away. Tywin was comfortable in the silence, it meant that his plan was working. Failed deals were usually led by outbursts and protests. A quiet man was a thinking man. 

“I like even coins and even numbers, simple ones for easy and efficient accounting. I trust you can see the value in that, you’re a smart man.” The compliment was genuine. Tywin was not one to butter up for the sake of a signed contract. 

Still, Ned was quiet. Tywin finished his cognac. He stood to bring the empty glass to the cart. He would not poor another unless it was for celebration. With a slightly louder voice, Tywin spoke again. “Mr. Stark, you and I both know that my rail is the only way that your fuel can reach far enough to be sold. Otherwise, with your overabundance, your prices will plummet, and you will be dumping it into the fields just to make room for what you are actively refining.” 

Stark knew it was the truth. 

“Two gold coins per barrel. Quick math and efficient to pay with. Lower than my original offer,” the Old Lion offered evenly, his voice rich like the crimson silk he wore on his waistcoat. 

“Two gold coins per barrel. Loading and unloading labor provided by your rail workers.” 

“That is correct, Mr. Stark.” 

Ned checked his back molar with his teeth as he pondered, his jaw working slightly. Should he refuse, he did not look forward to dealing with a spurned Tywin Lannister all weekend. The hospitality, the finery, the willingness to adapt his original prices…all were pushing the ball into Tywin’s court. And, the man was correct. Stark had already been forced to find ways to dispose of nearly one hundred barrels of crude oil just to make room for more valuable kerosene. He needed the country, he needed markets. 

He needed a train

“Deal,” Ned Stark finally said. He waited for the feeling of apprehension and dread that usually followed with the word, but none came. Never had he considered himself a superstitious man, but that seemed like a good sign. 

Tywin approached Stark in two long strides, holding out his hand, “You’ve made the right choice. I’m going to make you rich.” Ned stood and shook, a smile on his lips. The first true emotion that Tywin had seen so far. “Now I’ll take a drink, if your offer still stands. Bourbon.” 

The corners of Tywin’s lips quirked upwards the moment he had his back to Ned Stark. He poured himself another cognac and a bourbon for his guest. “I’ll have my clerk write up the contract for you and we will get it signed in he morning.” 

Normally, it would be a risky move to have so much time between the handshake and the signature, but Tywin was confident that there would be plenty of distractions that would prevent Ned from getting second thoughts. The two men toasted, and Tywin watched as Stark downed the amber colored liquid in one gulp. 

“I do have one request,” Stark said after the wince from the burn subsided. Tywin stiffened. “And it is not from me, but from my daughter.” 

The Old Lion stood very still as he waited for the other shoe to drop. 

“There is no obligation here, but I do urge you to consider it. My daughter, Sansa, has completed her secretarial studies and was hoping for a job. It seems to me that she has grown bored with the small town and is hoping for some experience away from home.” Ned looked almost sheepish, but he was still sure to meet Tywin’s eyes. “She was top of her class and is truly gifted with numbers. Her penmanship is the most perfect I’ve ever seen.” He rocked back on his heels. “I understand it may seem that I am biased, but in all honesty, Mr. Lannister, I am almost hoping you deny her request so that she may work for me. Even if it means several months of brooding.” 

It was truly a surprise, a twist that Tywin couldn’t have predicted, and he had grown to hate surprises. However, this wasn’t necessarily a negative one. The empty secretary desk was surely noticed by Stark when he had arrived. And there was no denying he was in sore need of competent help. If Walder Frey had slipped through the cracks by that mistress of Tyrion’s, who knew what else would be wrong or missing. 

“Would you allow an unpaid trial period so that I may see her abilities?” 

Stark looked surprised. “Absolutely, Mr. Lannister.” 

“What of lodging?” 

“I will purchase her a room nearby, with a scheduled carriage service so that she may arrive on time every day,” Ned offered. It would have been foolish to suggest that she stay at Casterly so soon. 

“If we find the time,” Tywin said slowly, “I would like to have an interview with her at some point before her employment. Preferably some time this weekend. I’ve had…bad luck…with past secretaries and I am not keen on making the same mistakes again.” His voice was firm. He wanted Stark to be sure that he was doing no favors and he would not guarantee any employment. 

The two made their way to the oak doors of his office. Tywin’s hand rested on the knob. “Before we meet, I urge you to speak with your daughter so that she does not get her hopes up. Fact of the matter, she is young, and she lacks true experience. My standards are quite high, Mr. Stark. And I disappoint easily.”

“Absolutely, I will have a word with her. My daughter handles honesty well.” “Good,” Tywin opened the door and the din of the party met them as they stepped into the entryway. “And for her sake, I hope she values it.” 

Stark gave him a nod and moved out towards the French doors, craving the fresh breeze and wanting to find his wife. Tywin stood and watched him go, his hands clasped behind his back. He turned and stared at the empty secretary desk and noticed sloppy ink marks on the mat. Grinding his teeth, he approached and noticed scrap paper, discarded pens with dried tips, and crumbs. It was true, he needed someone competent, but he was hesitant at best to give another young woman his time. 

However, there was value to beauty and fine manners. His clients would surely be more appreciative of Sansa’s fine features and porcelain completion than they would an older, arthritis-knuckled typist. She would warm them, smile and make them feel important. Behind his back, Tywin tapped his ringed index finger against the back of his other hand. Huffing once more at the disarray of the desk, the tall man turned and finally made his way to the hustle and bustle of his garden. He would make sure to watch how she interacted with the temptation of booze and young men. Liquor loosened tongues, and Tywin valued loyalty above everything, even profit. If that old-world etiquette could be washed away by a few sips of champagne he wouldn’t even have to bother with an interview. 

The sun stung at his eyes at first, and Tywin squinted in the fat and lazy afternoon light. It richened everything, the golds and red of the banners and the greens of his gardens. It pleased him, the way his land looked, and he savored the way others looked upon it as well. He was never a vain man, but at times the respect of others was a delicious thing. 

However, once Tywin’s eyes fell on his grandson being hoisted around the garden with a crumpled paper crown atop his head, he soured. The young men who held him on their shoulders assumed all of this was Joffrey’s and his parents, when, in actuality, the late Robert Baratheon’s pockets had been bare and Tywin’s daughter had no real wealth of her own. At one point, his son-in-law had a promising career had it not been for his addiction to alcohol. He turned into a fat poor drunk right before his very eyes. 

It appeared as if this would be a long and tiring party. Tywin strode to the outdoor bar and ordered something lighter now that he was sitting in the sun. Another gin and tonic and he made up his mind to drink it slowly so that the ice would melt and weaken it. The man wanted to stay sharp and drinking a watery cocktail was the sacrifice he would need to make. Tywin moved to the marble balustrade that enclosed his large back patio and looked down, past the steps and into the garden. 

Cersei was spotted lounging on the wicker next to the roses, another young woman with her as they played dominos. They both sat beneath sunshades in order to shelter from the sun. Jaime sat in one of the chairs around the little table as well, not playing the game, but puffing on his pipe. Rich sunlight reflected crimson and Tywin knew he had spotted Ned Stark’s daughter sitting with his twins. He sucked on the rim of his glass and pulled an ice cube into his mouth, crunching it as he made his way to the stairs. Sharing a game with his children might not necessarily be the best thing for the young Stark. 

“Is Joffrey enjoying himself?” Tywin asked as he approached, his eyes trained on his daughter. He did not acknowledge Sansa. 

“Oh,” Cersei drawled, craning her neck to watch the commotion above her on the patio, “I would say he is.” Her slender hands twirled the handle of her parasol, the thin paper of it providing some shade. 

A string quartet began to play, they must have taken a short break while Tywin got his cocktail. 

“I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Sansa Stark,” his daughter continued. The two s’s left her lips slow and slurred and Tywin remembered just how early she had decided to break into the champagne. “Isn’t she just the prettiest little dove, Father? I’m hoping to introduce her to Joffrey once he’s done having his fun.” 

Inside, he bristled. Of all the things that would be considered bad ideas, introducing a fetching young woman to his grandson was at the top of the list. The booze Joffrey was drinking would undoubtfully turn him into even rowdier than normal. Normally, he’d be uncaring if it was some random girl at the party, a plain-faced nobody unworthy of even an introduction. But Sansa’s father was about to sign the largest contract Tywin had ever considered writing up and he wanted nothing to do with the possibility of upsetting the man that would soon hold his pen. 

Deciding to intervene, Tywin looked down at Sansa and found that her eyes were trained on the dominos. There was a highball glass sweating on a coaster next to her tiles, a light blush colored liquid inside. 

“How are you enjoying the party, Ms. Stark?” Tywin asked. 

She looked up at him, adjusting her shade so she could see him fully. “Oh, I’m enjoying it very much. Your home is beautiful, as is your garden, Mr. Lannister. I’ve never seen roses so large.” 

The corners of Tywin’s mouth barely twitched upwards. He was pleasantly surprised. She responded clearly with no traces of slurring or lightheadedness. And to top it off she was complimentary to his home and grounds, not his grandson’s antics. Sansa Stark did not declare breathlessly how she had never seen such festivities or tasted such fine treats or cocktails. No, instead she flattered Tywin himself. 

“How did our bartenders do?” he asked, nodding at her drink. He noticed two mashed lemon wedges at the bottom. 

There was a brief flash of confusion on the woman’s face, her eyebrows stitching together, and her lips pushed themselves outwards. “Oh,” she finally gasped, giving a little smile, “I would assume that they are quite talented, however I am just drinking the rosewater lemonade.” 

Tywin glanced at his daughter who appeared bored. She leaned and whispered to Jaime, extending an arm out over the garden. She was talking about the possibility of putting in another fountain. 

“I’m sure I could have something as equally refreshing made for you, Ms. Stark,” Tywin suggested straightening up and searching for a servant. 

She blushed in the shade of her parasol. “Oh, no thank you, please don’t trouble yourself or your staff. I don’t usually indulge on hot days or before dinner. I’ve found that, when in the sun, it’s best to stay away from cocktails and champagne. No one likes a headache.” Her voice was sweet, but the hand in her lap picked at her skirts. She was still nervous and looked back to the tiles, searching for a distraction. 

Tywin was pleased with her response. She had unknowingly passed the little test he had set before her. 

“Very true,” he said quietly, looking at his drunk daughter and hearing the boisterous laughs of the young men of his patio. “No one likes a headache. Your father tells me that you are interested in secretarial work. Is that true?” 

Sansa glanced up at him, blue eyes wide. “I didn’t know he would bring that up right away. My apologies for seeming too eager, but yes. Numbers and scribing interests me quite a lot, as does organization. I’ve always wanted to work.” 

Cersei’s interest was back on the girl, one eyebrow raised and her mouth was pressed in a smirk. “Work? For someone as pretty as you? You’ll never have to work,” she dismissed with a lazy wave of her hand. 

Tywin noticed a very large difference between his daughter and the younger Sansa Stark. One was content while the other was ambitious. And truth be told, regardless of blood, one always seemed to hold more importance over the other. It was refreshing. He was dismissive of his daughter as he turned to fully face Sansa and he dipped his head down to make sure her eyes met his. She didn’t look away, knowing that what he was about to say next would be important. 

“At some point during your stay, Ms. Stark, I would like to have a conversation with you about what type of employee you think you could be, should you decide to work for Casterly Railroad Company. Dependent on an assessment of your skills, of course.” 

He watched as her lips parted with surprise, almost as if she had convinced herself she had misheard him. Then she smiled, still composed, and replied, “I look forward to it. Thank you very much, Mr. Lannister.” 

Tywin gave a little nod and faced Cersei, who was watching their interaction with a sharpened gaze, the booze momentarily wearing off as she regarded her father showing interest in Sansa Stark. It was professional, yet she still didn’t seem to like it. “Cersei, please send someone to fetch me when the cake cutting begins.” 

A rough draft of the contract would need to be completed by morning in order to send off to his lawyer and Tywin was already planning out the wording as he crossed the manicured garden grass and headed back up the stairs. People seemed to part for him as if they were opposite ends of a magnet and he was unapproached as he made his way back to his office. He passed by the empty secretary desk. If their first few interactions were anything to go by, Tywin Lannister was confident that it would not be empty for long.


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISE things will start picking up. Thank you everyone for your patience as I work through this story. I get distracted with descriptions, and I know that sometimes things get wordy, so thank you all so much for reading through it. I cannot express how overjoyed and humble I am when I read comments. They get me through the day and they truly make writing seem worth it. Thanks again!

The cake had been chocolate, and Joffrey had cut it badly. He had gotten about three pieces done before an employee of the baker stepped in to take over. White frosting and chocolate cake, with candles twisted from red wax along long, thin wicks. Tywin had a plate and he had allowed himself a very small piece, more of a bite than anything else. He was wary of sugars and indulgencies. He thought of Varys, his round clerk. The poor man’s coats always looked too tight, yet it never prevented him from helping himself to sweet buns or scones every morning. Sugar coated Tywin’s tongue as he watched Joffrey rip into papered boxes and he craved some black coffee to cut through the cloy.

Gracious hosts waited until their guests were gone before they explored their gifts. But, while his grandson may have been bred from patient stock, the virtue hadn’t quite made it to him. Although, it never got very far with Joffrey’s mother either. 

A few moments ago, Tywin had sent off the outlined contract of Casterly Railroad Company’s mergence with Stark Oil with his chief accountant, Petyr Baelish. 

“Are you sure about this?” the smaller man had asked, his eyebrows raised. He clutched at the thick document sleeve with ringed fingers. For an accountant, Petyr always seemed flashy. Loud. And sometimes Tywin wondered just who he was trying to prove himself to. 

Tywin had sat back in his chair and rubbed a finger against his chin, lip curled against his teeth. His hand hurt from writing and he silently cursed at his aged joints. “Why do you ask that, Baelish?” 

Petyr shrugged, informal and surprisingly comfortable. Every so often, when it was just the two men in the office, Baelish acted as if Tywin was more dependent on his services than the Old Lion actually was. Assumption made the sly little man comfortable, even though Tywin had never once asked for his council or opinion when it came to business. But now Petyr looked like he had something to offer, some information that Tywin would want. 

“I don’t know if you knew this, but I grew up with Mrs. Catelyn Stark. She was a Tully before marriage.” 

“Tully? As in Edmure Tully?” Tywin asked. 

Nodding, Petyr said, “Her brother.” 

“Huh,” Tywin hummed, his eyebrows furrowed. “I’ve read some articles about that man. Been trying to use his rivers to churn out some sort of…” he waved his hand trying to find the right word, “power. Harvestable power.” 

“He’d been trying for years. Certainly over a decade.” 

“Any luck?” 

“I suppose not, the papers would be filled with it, I would think.” Petyr sniffed, shifting the papers. 

“You say you grew up with them?” the Lion hummed, tilting his head back to rest against the high back of the chair. 

Petyr knew better than to sit down when tempted with conversation. Tywin Lannister wasn’t making small talk, he was searching for facts. “Yes, in the Fingers.” 

“River family,” quietly murmured Tywin, “How is their family?” 

Shrugging, Petyr offered, “Strong. Always together. Good bones and, from my memory, very close.” 

A good family. That wasn’t necessarily something to admire. Tywin soon found himself wanting Baelish to leave so he could think. A worming little thought had wriggled its way into his mind and it began to itch like untreated wool to his skin. Petyr had notoriously good hearing and even better memory and the Old Lion knew better than to muse within earshot of any of his clerks. 

“That will be sent to the Iron Bank by the end of the day, yes?” Lannister asked with a glint of his eye. “With the seal intact?” 

Baelish gave an irked little smile, false and shallow. “Of course, sir, by the end of the day.” 

The smaller man was smart enough to realize when he is sent away and he graciously turned to leave out the large doors. Tywin watched him go and he wondered to himself just why he allowed such a sneaky little person within his office. But, he mused as he stared mindlessly at his desk, he employed skills, not personalities. And Petyr Baelish was sharp with numbers. Also, he had offered up some tantalizing little tidbit about Tywin’s new comrade. Catelyn was a Tully. Sister to quite the shiny new inventor. 

So, as Tywin stood nearly an hour later with an empty plate and nursing a craving for something to tame the sweetness on his tongue, he pondered the same thing that had been on his mind since Baelish left his office. 

Why would the immediate family of Edmure Tully marry an oilman? Wasn’t her brother actively searching for the same thing that would, in theory, put her beloved husband out of work? And, if Baelish’s words were accurate, it sounded as if Tully hadn’t started his search recently. Tywin didn’t know exactly how long the Starks had been married, but he was sure that Catelyn had listened to her brother’s ideas before even meeting Ned Stark. Inventors of that tenacity usually weren’t quiet. So why the union? If there was some sort of way to harness energy without burning through the oil lamp wick, then surely Ned’s newfound wealth would be short lived. 

“How was the cake?” The drawl of his eldest son’s voice snapped Tywin away from his thoughts. He smelled the sticky bitterness of pipe tobacco. Jaime had spent years trying to convince his father that different tobaccos had notes and flavors, subtle differences, yet Tywin always smelled dirt in the springtime…when the leaves started to rot away with the old snow. 

“Fine,” came the short reply. 

Jaime puffed on his pipe and Tywin could tell he wasn’t as nearly drunk as his sister or brother. “The Starks seem to be enjoying themselves.” 

Darting his eyes over the crowd, Tywin noticed the two eldest sons of Ned’s sitting at the bar and watching the gift opening. The oldest, Robb, had a hardened gaze and he would turn to whisper to his brother as Joffrey ripped apart packages and paper. Tywin found Ned and Catelyn on a bench further removed from the activity, looking out over his gardens in the dimming light. 

He stiffened when he saw Sansa close to Cersei, beaming up at Joffrey with blushed cheeks. “I hope everyone is being hospitable,” Tywin murmured to his son and Jaime noticed the warning. 

“She seems to like her, father,” reassured Jaime. 

“Hmm,” the Lion mused, “for now.” 

“She’s not as bitter as you seem to think,” his son urged, thick smoke slipping from his lips. “She’s just protective of the family.” 

“My family doesn’t need the sort of protection she thinks she can provide,” Tywin said, moving away from Jaimie and stepping towards the rubbish bin. “The type of protection I need comes from Clegane and his men. I wouldn’t consider the parlor maids that have been driven away by your sister’s bitterness threats.” 

Jaime was quiet, the light pipe stem clenched in his teeth. His eyes darted from his father and Cersei. Loyalty always slowed his tongue when Tywin started to criticize his siblings, no matter how true the words were. 

Whoops and cheers resounded from the crowd and Tywin looked at where his grandson stood. Tywin’s gift had been opened. Joffrey was holding up a brand new polished polo mallet and luxurious, velvet covered helmet. Gold lettering “JB” was imprinted on the front. Supple buckskin gloves were in the box as well. 

“About time the boy started to play a real sport,” Tywin muttered before he smiled and held up his hand in a simple wave. 

“Nothing wrong with rugby,” Jaime let slip while he crossed his arms. They were standing next to each other facing Joffrey. Tywin was able to watch as Sansa leaned backwards with surprise as his grandson foolishly waved the club mallet around as if it were a streamer. 

“So does that mean I get a horse, grandfather?” Joffrey called across the din, his eyes wide yet glazed. He had a stupid, eager grin on his face and Tywin’s hand itched with the urge to wipe it off. 

Tywin was silent, but inside he had felt himself bristle. He did not appreciate being called out in this way and he felt many pairs of eyes on him. He was particularly aware of the bright blue ones of Sansa Stark and the expectant ones of Cersei. Collectively, the party held its breath as they waited for Tywin to respond to Joffrey’s expectancies. 

No, he had not gotten Joffrey a horse. But admitting that would cause embarrassment. 

And, quite possibly, a tantrum. 

“Any one in the stable, I suppose” Tywin called back, no trace of a smile on his lips. He had many fine animals in his stables and he had grown partial to buckskins and palominos, finding that the light coats complimented his carriages well. However, the thought of the blonde little brat waltzing in to take his pick was almost too much to bear and Tywin was already beginning to list out a number of rules and conditions in his head.

Regrettably, Tywin’s answer had caused Joffrey’s face to light up and he plopped the helmet on his head. “Come on!” he beckoned to a few of his closest friends with the mallet and they began to run down the steps to the garden. Cersei tried to reach out to him but she was far too slow and the group was off, hollering and laughing as they careened down the steps. 

Tywin whirled to Jaime. “Where is he going?” he barked as Joffrey and his small gang of young men disappeared around the corner of the hedge. The direction of the stable. His well-intentioned gift had suddenly turned into fuel for a fire. 

“I’ll go get him,” Jaime sighed as the crowd moved their way to the balustrade in order to crane their necks. 

“Take Clegane with you,” Tywin snapped, following Jaime closely, “and bring him back here. His friends are done, they can leave.” 

Tywin began to pick his way to Cersei who was standing and facing him as if she was expecting the tongue lashing. Encircling her wrist in his large hand, Tywin pulled her away from the group. 

“If he damages one of my horses he will be shoveling shit for a month,” her father seethed. 

Cersei rolled her eyes and brought up her champagne to her lips. Tywin’s arm jutted out and he snatched it away, tossing it aside and ignoring how the crystal shattered on his patio. “Your grandson’s happiness is less valuable than a horse?” she glowered. She looked like a child. 

“Yes,” the Old Lion growled. “far less valuable. He’s drunk and acting a fool. I have clients here.” 

“And I have been doing far more than what’s expected of me in entertaining her,” Cersei retorted, snapping her fingers as a servant passed with a tray of more champagne. “Yet no thank-you for me. Let my son have a little fun, won’t you?” 

Distant galloping of hooves caused Tywin’s head to snap up and he ignored the ramblings of his daughter. He watched as Joffrey came shooting around the corner on a particularly beautiful palomino horse, bareback and waving the polo mallet like a pendulum. Jaime or Clegane had not gotten there in time. His grandson yanked on the reigns he had managed to put on the horse, undoubtedly forcefully mashing the bit into the poor creature’s mouth. 

It reared in front of the steps, eyes wide as Joffrey’s heals dug into its side. The crowd laughed as if it was planned, but Tywin could see the real danger. His grandson was drunk and mishandling a thousand pound creature, making it even more agitated with every passing second. Joffrey bellowed like the cowboys in the story, repeatedly kicking the animal to try and get it to rear again. Instead, it stomped and tossed it’s head, angry and ugly. 

Red tunneled Tywin’s eyes and he quickly moved down the garden steps and towards the animal. He was uncaring of the crowd, he was uncaring of the impressions the Starks might glean, and he was uncaring of the safety of his grandson. The need for control and the anger he felt for Joffrey’s brashness was overpowering any of Tywin’s other emotions. Dew had started to form on the manicured grass of the garden and the toes of his shoes began to slick with moisture. Joffrey was urging the horse towards the tall maze hedges. One of the only good decisions the boy had made all night. It allowed him to be further away from the crowd on the patio. 

The hollers from Sandor Clegane sounded like muted whispers as Tywin approached the snorting animal. Several men rushed towards the horse before he could get there in time, Clegane one of them. Massive and strong, he gripped the horses halter strap around its head and pulled at it. They swarmed the creature, grabbing at the bit and the reigns, much to Joffrey’s verbal protest as he tried to stay balanced above. 

Then, as if the situation couldn’t get any worse, Joffrey started swinging the polo mallet. 

“I want to ride!” he shouted. The horse kicked, but thankfully Clegane’s men were smart enough to stay far away from the horse’s hindquarters. In the din he noticed the blonde hair of Jaime, ducking and dodging the rounded head of the mallet. 

Tywin hoped that they were far enough away from the patio and there was too much chaos for the other guests to really see what was happening. He watched closely, expecting the swing, and caught the mallet in one hand, only vaguely aware of how his thumb smarted, and pulled hard. Joffrey twisted and yanked as hard as he could but Tywin’s hand was an iron vice. Digging in his heels, he yanked the mallet, eliciting a low grunt with the effort. Without a saddle or stirrups to anchor him, Joffrey yelped and was pulled from the animals back. Relieved from his kicking heels, the horse allowed itself to be stilled. 

Gripping the back of his shirt as if it was the scruff of an unruly pup, Tywin hoisted Joffrey to his feet. He bent at the waist to meet his grandson’s ear, the palm of his hand and his thumb throbbing, “You’re done. The night is over.” 

Joffrey struggled against his grandfather’s grip and tried to protest, but Tywin adjusted his hand so he was pulling at the sensitive baby hairs that were sprouting from his neck, yanking them along with the collar of the boy’s shirt. He wanted to strike the boy, watch as his ring cut through the soft flesh of Joffrey’s cheek, but the guests would see the bruise. So instead, Tywin growled, “You are going to pass this off as the horse losing control, do you understand?” 

In the weakening light, Tywin could see Joffrey’s darkened and angry eyes. They were sharp like flint, sour with pouting. “You said I could have a horse from the stable.” 

Tywin didn’t even bother with a response as he hoisted Joffrey to his feet. “Get back up there. Be a gracious host, or by God’s will you will be sent out on the first train to a work site that I can find. Is that understood, birthday boy?” Tywin spat, flecks of spittle flicking on Joffrey’s face. The young man had never seen his grandfather so angry. He nodded submissively, his mouth still churned into an unfortunate looking scowl. 

As his adrenaline began to ebb, Tywin felt the sting in his hand and he knew with a sinking heart that he had torn a ligament with the wrenching of Joffrey and the polo mallet. It was a reoccurring injury from when he was a younger man, fighting on the shores of the Mississippi. Once he had lined up a solid punch to another man’s jaw, but in the melee he had improperly tucked his thumb on the inside of his fist and, when his knuckles had collided, the force had completely dislocated his thumb. He glared at the stupid boy, chest heaving slightly with anger. 

“Your father may have not given a shit about disciplining you, but I’ve had just about enough. Starting Monday you are going to work, is that understood?” 

The muscles in Joffrey’s jaw clenched and his eyebrows furrowed. He looked stupid, hunched over and pouting, as he shoved past Tywin Lannister and stomped his way to the patio. Tywin watched him go, hanging back as the anger subsided. Back straight, Tywin cradled his arm, trying to move his thumb. Each movement felt like pins. And of course it had to be his right hand, the hand for writing. He cursed silently, glaring at the party. Tywin heard laughter from the patio as Joffrey approached and he knew that the kid had enough sense to pass off the whole incident as an accident. Something silly, yet exciting. 

“You alright, sir?” a gruff voiced asked while Tywin stood brooding. Clegane approached while the horse was brought back to the stables by Jaime. Also out of breath, he puffed while he stood next to the Old Lion, equally tall yet much burlier. 

“They’re done, send them home,” Tywin ordered, ignoring the original question. 

“Yes sir.” Clegane snapped his fingers and he was followed by two accomplices towards the party. Tywin followed, jaw clenched so tightly that the headache in his temples momentarily dulled out the throbbing in his thumb. 

Ned stark was on the stairs, waiting for them and, truthfully, he was the last man that Tywin had wanted to see at this time. The Old Lion did not have the necessary patience in him to keep up the formalities. 

But instead of requesting information or pester him with questions of what happened, Ned Stark just asked, “Anything I can do?” 

Tywin stood on the bottom step, regarding Mr. Stark with wary eyes. He stepped up, once, to be on the same stair as Ned, which reminded the two men which one was taller. Ned tossed his head back towards the crowd. “My boys are helping, hope you don’t mind.” 

Looking past Ned Stark, Tywin watched as the two curly haired men stand next to Sandor and reach out to the rowdy young men, taking their arms and steering them towards the exit. 

“Parties aren’t really what they’re comfortable with…and truth be told, this is more exciting for them. I can tell them to sit back down if you prefer.” 

Of course, Tywin wanted them to sit back down. It was insulting for the sons of his client to be assisting with the ejection of a rowdy crowd, but Tywin’s hands were tied. The Starks had been forced to sit through quite the show of youthful stupidity and Tywin did not have the upper hand he needed to tell the boys not to help. If he waltzed in pretending everything had been fine and began to sweep things under the rug, Ned would have been insulted. The best thing for their new and budding partnership would be comradery and Ned Stark was a practical man, forgiving. He was smart enough to know that what had just happened had been outside of Tywin’s control and he was providing an olive branch. 

Tywin hated it and he felt weak as his hand pulsed with pain. Ned Stark was becoming too close to an equal with this new little disaster. Was he just offering to be helpful? Or was Stark going out of his way to let Tywin know that he recognized that, behind the gold and the silver, the Lannisters were just one big mess? The porthole was open far too wide for them to view the ugliness left in the wake of the Lannister wealth. 

Frayed nerves made Tywin unnecessarily sensitive. Here the Starks sat composed and united in the unfortunate glow of a family who hid their discourse behind dollar signs and finery. They were a strong family and Tywin knew that strong families held more power than strong contracts.

The Lion realized that needed something to quell this pack of wolves. 

“That’s fine, if they can help I welcome it,” Tywin lied. He cradled his injured hand and decided to make a gamble. “Mr. Stark, I must admit that your daughter has impressed me this evening, I had the pleasure of speaking with her earlier in the day.” 

His heartbeat swelled in his hand, pain in its wake, and he knew that he would be unable to even hold a pen for the next few days. 

“I would like for her to begin work on Monday, a trial period. I would also like to have an interview with her today or tomorrow. But, to be frank, Mr. Stark, I foresee that interview going very well, so let us be honest with each other.” Tywin clenched his jaw as he winced from his pain. “I am injured. I’m going to need a competent secretary immediately. I have every expectation that Ms. Stark’s interview will go well so let’s just bite the bullet and start planning this, shall we?” 

If Ned was happy, he hid it well. He just nodded. “Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Lannister.” 

“This is my right hand, the hand I scribe with,” Tywin said as he held up his bruised extremity, “After today I will be unable to even hold a pen. I hope your daughter will be willing to work long hours.” 

“She has a strong work ethic.” 

The crowd above them was thinning. “That’s good,” Tywin mused, giving Ned Stark a nod. All Lannister really wanted was to retreat back to his room and thrust his hand into a basin full of cold water. He had grown weary and he was unafraid to admit it. 

“Forgive my rudeness, but I think it’s time for me to turn in for the night. Please take full advantage of whatever food and drink is left. I will have someone wake you all for breakfast in the morning. The staff will show you to your rooms whenever you are ready to retire,” said Tywin as he gave a sharp nod to Ned. 

Ned nodded. “Thank you very much, Mr. Lannister.” 

With long strides, Tywin quickly made his way back up the steps and through the thinning crowd. He ignored the calls from Cersei and Jaime, he ignored the questions from his staff. His head was full of cotton as he tried to regain his composure in the wake of his anger and pain. Joffrey had humiliated him, shamed his family in the eyes of important guests. And now, to make up for it, Tywin felt as if he needed to hire Sansa Stark. He wanted a member of that family close to him, something to prevent them from turning into the united powerhouse he knew they could be. 

In the lamplight of his own room, Tywin looked at his swelled hand. The already weakened ligaments in his thumb had indeed been pulled and strained by the torque of Joffrey’s mallet. Tywin cursed at himself for not just giving the boy a book of Casterly Railroad Company stocks. No, he had to get the young man an actual gift. What a stupid decision that had been. 

Tywin drank in the privacy of his own room, glass after glass until he could no longer feel the thumping of his pulse in his hand. He brooded about the Starks until the moon was high in the sky. And, when the stars were strong enough to twinkle their own type of judgement down upon him, he planned. This day would never happen again. Joffrey’s lack of control would embarrass him no more and that snot-nosed little brat will not spend another year at Casterly. 

Tywin just needed to find a way to get him out. 


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! another chapter as we chip along at this slow burn. I didn't come out and give a solid number, but Tywin in this story is in his early fifties. I know that makes for some teen parents with both him and Cersei...but hey...it's fun to pretend. Thank you guys for putting up with my inconsistencies, I know I probably have a few. 
> 
> The response to this story is so overwhelming. Here I thought I was just putting out a story into the void but knowing there are others who like the same thing and are kind enough to send encouragement is so heartwarming. I wish I had time to thank all people who commented, liked, and bookmarked this story. Just know I'm thinking of you!
> 
> lots of love! -J

“At least a week,” wheezed the reedy doctor as he carefully wound bandages around Tywin Lannister’s palm and wrist. They were tight and Tywin felt his fingertips tingle. “That’s how long you’ll need to rest it.”

It had been bad news already tainting an undesirable morning. Tywin had awoke with a mild headache, the kind that pulsed annoyingly between his eyes right above the bridge of his nose. The morning light was weak, yet irksome and the man laid in his bed, holding up his hand to inspect the possible injury. The thumb had bruised slightly, however the discoloration was not nearly as worrisome as the swelling. Fluid had pooled to his thumb during the night and he cursed himself for not propping his hand up on a pillow as he slept. 

The doctor had come before breakfast, escorted by Clegane while Tywin waited for his toast and egg in his room. An old man that frequented Casterly when requested, Dr. Pycelle was a weak man with shaky hands and watery eyes. Yet he seemed to have a firm and capable understanding of medicine. He had pulled up a chair While Tywin sat next to the empty fireplace on the tufted loveseat. 

“Where are the Starks?” Tywin asked Clegane, wincing as Pycelle took his injured hand and instructed Tywin to hold it close to his chest, above his heart. He bent over and dug in his scuffed black doctor’s bag and pulled out a plain cream handkerchief. 

Clegane nibbled on a toothpick. “They are having breakfast, Jaime is hosting.” 

Pycelle wrapped the cloth around Tywin’s arm and fashioned a sling, the knot digging in uncomfortably to the base of his neck. He assumed looked ridiculous, sitting in his pajamas and robe with his arm bundled up as if it were a bindle. 

“You must keep your hand above your heart,” murmured the doctor as he removed his wire rimmed spectacles. He folded them up and tucked them into his suit pocket. “This will assist with the swelling. The sling for three days, no use for a week.” Tywin nodded, waving him away in lieu of thanks. Pycelle understood and was not insulted. The sizeable check that would be delivered to his office would most certainly make up for Tywin’s poor manners. They always did. 

A servant with a silver tray and Tywin’s breakfast slipped into the room as the rickety old doctor left. A pot of coffee, two pieces of sourdough toast and a soft boiled egg. The same every morning. 

“Sandor,” Tywin said, staring at his breakfast with a frown. “Will you send for Tyrion?” 

Clegane nodded and left with heavy footsteps. Tywin picked up the silver knife with his left hand and tried to tap at the side of his egg. The alien feeling of his non-dominant hand was hard to account for and he hit the egg with too much force. It tumbled from its little cup and Tywin cussed beneath his breath. Too proud to set it back in the cup and try again, the Old Lion instead found himself too annoyed to eat so he drank his coffee. At least he could pour with his left. He had always allowed himself cream, no sugar. Never sugar. But he remembered his mother telling him that humans needed fats, even more than the meat or the potatoes he had always consumed. Fats kept you warm, kept you working. 

So, as homage, Tywin always indulged with his morning coffee and he always preferred his supper to be prepared with butter. 

He leaned back into the sofa and craned his neck over to the impossibly large wardrobe in the corner of his room. The suit would be a pain with his arm bundled up. Tywin stood, coffee still cradled in his hand, and walked to his water closet. Two brushes, wide like paddles with horsehair bristles, were on his vanity. He took one, wet it in the basin his staff had filled during the night, and set to work brushing back his white-blonde hair. Usually, to ensure evenness, he used both hands in tandem, but that would be impossible with his injured thumb. So he did one side at a time, craning his neck this way and that, dipping and raising his chin, sure to see from all angles. In truth, his hair was never very messy in the morning, but the routine comforted him. 

Then, Tywin stood over the basin and splashed at his face. The water was cool and it sharpened him, made him feel bright and awake. He heard his son’s voice as he dabbed at his bristled jaw with a plush towel. 

“You rang?” 

“Tyrion,” Tywin called from the bathroom, “Give me a moment.” 

_Much like father, hurry up and wait, _Tyrion mused as he sat on the sofa cushion. He looked at the discarded breakfast, the egg rolled to the side of the tray. “What did Pycelle have to say?” he shouted to his father.__

__Tywin regarded himself in the mirror and found that, besides his attire, he was more than presentable. Even with his injury. “Pulled ligaments,” Tywin answered as he stepped out of the washroom. He watched as Tyrion helped himself to coffee. He plunked two sugar cubes in his cup. “He is urging me to refrain from using my hand in order to prevent permanent damage.”_ _

__“How unfortunate,” Tyrion said, sniffing and stirring. “What is your plan for work?”_ _

__Tywin sat in the chair that Pycelle had brought over to the table. He wasn’t about to share a small sofa with his small son._ _

__“I’m going to hire Sansa Stark.”_ _

__Tyrion’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? Getting a little intimate with the Starks already, I see.”_ _

__“She’s more qualified than that prostitute you brought in,” Tywin warned._ _

__If Tyrion was insulted by his father’s words, he didn’t show it. He drank from the silver inlaid coffee cup. “Rather a fine woman to be interested in secretarial work, don’t you think? Shouldn’t she be filling her time floating to debutante balls or wasting away afternoons with luncheons?”_ _

__“I suppose she values the use of her intelligence rather than piss it away with parties and quips,” Tywin said, reaching out to take his own cup._ _

__“Sounds boring,” Tyrion mused, his father’s jabs rolling off his back like water droplets to duck feathers. “Why are you telling me this?”_ _

__Bobbing his slipper covered foot, Tywin’s mouth twisted up and he momentarily doubted what he was about to say next. But, as he watched his son help himself to the discarded breakfast, he realized that Tyrion was the only trustworthy one of his offspring. Even Tywin’s beloved Jaime had a tendency to be self-indulgent and he wanted what was best for business._ _

__“I know you were…enjoying…the party yesterday, Tyrion,” the Old Lion drawled, stirring at his drink, “but I wanted to know if you were able to pay any attention to Cersei and the Stark girl.”_ _

__“Why the scrutiny?” Tywin mused. “Ah, you want to know if my sister was being her usual self or if she was behaving.”_ _

__Tywin stared unblinkingly at his son. The foot had stopped bobbing. “What I want to know, Tyrion, is if she pushed Joffrey upon the poor girl.”_ _

__“Why?” Tyrion asked, brow furrowed._ _

__Finishing his coffee with one final drink, Tywin returned the cup to its saucer. “A comment was made, Cersei was playing dominos with the girl and she mentioned making introductions to Joffrey.”_ _

__“While I understand your apprehension, I must admit I didn’t notice anything up to the horse fiasco,” Tyrion said sheepishly, his temples thumping with his hangover._ _

__Getting up to move to his wardrobe, Tywin called over his shoulder, “I want you to make sure that wild little pup stays away from Ms. Stark. I want her to be focused on work, not dealing with a volatile little firecracker.”_ _

__The plush cushions of the loveseat were overstuffed and Tyrion slid from it easily. He knew it was time to go as Tywin reached for the glossy cedar doors of his wardrobe. “I’ll do my best,” he called as he made his way to the door. “Anything else I can do?”_ _

__Though the question was intended to be rhetorical, Tywin responded, “Yes. Please have Sansa Stark sent to my office in an hour.”_ _

__Dipping at the waist and giving an exaggerated bow to his father’s back, Tyrion slipped out the door, a smile on his lips as he imagined how his father would dress with his injury. Surely it would be frustrating for him and that was a small delight that Tyrion savored._ _

__“If you hear cursing,” the small man quipped to Sandor as the bedroom door shut behind him, “be cautious going in there. I believe the old man might be trying to change.”_ _

__Sandor stared down at him, not smiling or speaking, arms clasped behind his back as he stood guard outside his employer’s bedroom. His like for Tyrion Lannister usually changed with the day or the mood, but he had never been the biggest of fans. But, as far as the Lannister kids went, Tyrion was by far the most tolerable. Just a little too sarcastic for Clegane’s liking._ _

__Tyrion waved him off with a hand, walking away knowing full well that what he said had been funny and Clegane was simply too much of a bore to notice._ _

__Almost one hour later, Tywin was sitting at his desk. Typically, he spent more time in his office than anywhere else in Casterly, but the slow start to the day had placed him in front of his ledgers much later than usual. He wore a champagne colored waistcoat, and tan trousers. A red ascot, no formal tie. And, of course, the infuriating sling was knotted right at the back of his neck and he felt it dig in uncomfortably. The only thing that truly kept Tywin from going without the damn loop of fabric was the fear of permanent injury. Older age was changing his body every day, though he was far from the oldest man in the business. He was quite young when the twins were born, still in his late teens, and Cersei had been very young when Joffrey had been born, which had led to her very hasty marriage to Robert Baratheon. Even though he was only a few years past the age of fifty, Tywin’s age had taken up more of his worries than anything else._ _

__Except for today. Today he was taking a gamble and as he ignored the smarting of his hand, he stared at the setup on the other side of his desk._ _

__Blank cardstock and a fountain pen, capped, were laid out and expectantly waiting for Sansa Stark’s arrival. The pen itself was intended to be a little trick. It was a new Cross pen, the kind that actually held ink in a small reservoir inside. An inkwell was next to it with an eyedropper cap. The pen was emptied; he had made sure of that. Tywin wanted to watch how Stark would handle hiccups, especially during dictation._ _

__Three knocks brought Tywin’s attention to his office doors. They cracked open and Tyrion’s head poked through. “A Ms. Sansa Stark, for you.”_ _

__Tywin straightened in his chair. “Bring her in.”_ _

__Sansa was dressed plainly and he liked that. A floor length tartan print skirt full of lush greens and navies with a pressed white blouse with pearl buttons . The neck was high, further elongating the woman’s already lean frame. She wore a gold cross pendant and it caught the early afternoon light._ _

__“Good afternoon, Mr. Lannister,” she said. Sansa was trying to make her voice strong. And she had almost succeeded, but Tywin heard the slight waver in her voice. Years of sifting through men’s bluffs and lies had sharpened his ears to it._ _

__“Good afternoon, Ms. Stark,” he replied, staying still. It was good that she was nervous. Young people should be nervous. Hell, when it came to Tywin Lannister, adult men should be nervous. He decided that his questions would wait until he saw her skills. Why waste time making small talk only to find out the poor girl couldn’t spell or add?_ _

__“Sit, please.”_ _

__She did as suggested, crossing her legs at the ankle and not one leg over the other. The backrest to the chair was ignored, her posture was perfect. Hands in the lap, eyes looking ahead. He held her gaze, green eyes to blue, until she looked away at the paper in front of her, then to the windows._ _

__Yes, she was nervous, but she was performing well so far._ _

__“So, Ms. Stark, thank you for taking the time from your stay to sit with me.”_ _

__Sansa provided a small and polite smile, controlled. “Of course. I would like to thank you as well, Mr. Lannister.”_ _

__Elaboration was unnecessary and Tywin liked that she was careful with her words. Each one was thoughtful, she wasn’t anxiously chattering to fill the room with empty noise._ _

__“I think,” Tywin said, sniffing and leaning forward. He felt the damnable knot of the sling press against his neck with the movement. “I would like to see your transcribing skills, will that be a problem?”_ _

__Sansa’s mouth parted just a breath and her eyes looked at the paper. “No,” she answered, looking up at him, “No problem. Would you mind if I just take a moment to ready myself?”_ _

__Impressed, Tywin’s eyebrows twitched just ever so slightly upwards. “Of course.”_ _

__Deftly, and with slender fingers, Sansa Stark leaned forward and took up the Cross pen, unscrewing it to look inside to determine the ink level. Seeing that it was, by design, quiet empty, she took the eyedropper and filled the pen._ _

__“The ink you provided is blue. Is that preferred, Mr. Lannister?” she asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear before screwing the pen back together. Her foot hooked around the leg of the chair and pulled it closer to Tywin’s desk, so as to reach the paper better. It was the most casual action she had taken so far._ _

__“Blue is fine for notes.”_ _

___Very nice catch, Ms. Stark. _____

 _ _ _When Tywin saw that she was now ready, waiting with the pen hovering above paper he began. “Now, for the sake of example, let us pretend that you are writing out a letter for me. Shall we begin?”___

___“I am ready when you are,” Sansa replied, a little bolder. The job at hand was providing an adequate distraction for her and the nerves were subsiding._ _ _

___Tywin dictated some pretend letter off the top of his head, throwing in words that were typically hard to spell and retracting sentences often. He spoke quickly, firmly, his eyes not leaving the pen held in Sansa’s hand. Her head was dipped as she wrote, pink lip tucked beneath her teeth. That thick red hair was twisted in a braid and it hung over her shoulder like a rope. She kept pace with him. When Tywin would pause to allow her to catch up, he was surprised to find that she was waiting for him to continue, the tip of the pen hovering expectantly. So he kept going…until he decided he had enough of the fake letter exercise._ _ _

___“You can stop,” he told her. She nodded, capping the pen and leaning backwards. “Let me see.”_ _ _

___Suddenly, the girl paused and Tywin watched as the slightest of blushes began to lighten her cheeks. She looked down at the paper, her bright eyes wide. Then, with a sigh of resolve, she stood and picked up the paper and held it out for Tywin to inspect. He looked up at her from his seat and leaned forward, taking it in his good hand and inspecting it._ _ _

___Over the years, Tywin had convinced himself that he was a hard man to surprise, but Sansa had successfully proved him wrong. He had expected the girl’s handwriting to look like her in a way, long and looping. Definitely feminine. But what he was staring at was so unlike her he would’ve doubted she had even written it, had he not watched her in real time._ _ _

___There were no words, or letters for that matter. Slashes, dots, zigs and zags filled the paper instead, stretched out row after row like some sort of code. Tywin now understood how she had kept pace._ _ _

___“Interesting,” he mused, his eyes taking in the symbols. He looked up at her found her to be watching closely. “You learned shorthand.”_ _ _

___“It helps me keep pace,” Sansa answered._ _ _

___“So then, tell me, Ms. Stark,” Tywin mused, waving the paper a little to dry the ink. “if you spend the day with me and end up taking notes for twenty documents during a few meetings, when will you be able to transcribe them?”_ _ _

___“I am a very fast typist, Mr. Lannister. I transcribe as I type them out. That is, if you prefer typed documents to hand written ones.”_ _ _

___“Typed is fine,” the Old Lion hummed. “But I want you to be prepared for long days. I want to be able to trust that you keep the documents organized and nothing slips through the cracks.”_ _ _

___“I understand,” Sansa said._ _ _

___Tywin cocked his head, still waving the paper even though the ink was well dried. He wanted to fold it, but with his left hand bundled up that would be impossible. “You transcribe well, you type well, I’ve been told your mathematics are up to par…why aren’t you working for your father’s office?”_ _ _

___The question was a personal one and Tywin wasn’t afraid of it. If Sansa Stark would be working for him she would be transcribing personal letters as well as professional ones. At some point she would hear details of Tywin’s life and he wanted to know about her in turn. Anything to level the playing field. Knowledge kept people in line. Ned Stark may have agreed to sound a merging contract, but Tywin didn’t know him from Adam._ _ _

___And as he sat upon his throne of rail, the Old Lion could not help but be a little suspicious at her father’s request for employment so soon upon meeting._ _ _

___Sansa was thoughtful with her response. “Did you work for your father, Mr. Lannister?”_ _ _

___His eyes narrowed._ _ _

___Continuing, she said, “I come from a large family. I have many brothers and one sister. All I’ve smelled since I was a girl was oil, kerosene, and fuel. I’ve been to the factory almost as much as I have my own home. I want a change. I would like to use my skills to impress an employer that doesn’t look at me through the rose-colored glass of family.”_ _ _

___“I’ve heard the way your father talked about your skills.”_ _ _

___Sansa smiled, her mouth loving but her eyes sad. “He is supposed to say those things, I’m his daughter.”_ _ _

___“Blood doesn’t always ensure praise,” Tywin murmured quietly. The words slipped from him before he could stop them. If she heard them she pretended not to._ _ _

___Silence hung between them as Tywin absorbed Sansa’s words. They were honest, but not too revealing. She shared just enough to make it personal without oversharing her insecurities or dreams. This was an interview after all. Tywin shifted, picturing how the girl would look sitting behind that desk outside his office. She would look quite nice and nice things made him proud. He thought of the businessmen coming in to make a deal with Casterly Rail, thinking that he was getting older and more lenient. They would see Sansa Stark sitting there, beautiful and poised surrounded by luxury as she took notes, and they would feel so badly about their own old clerks and hunched-backed accountants._ _ _

___He leaned greedily into the selfishness of the thought, indulging in the image of people stuttering upon seeing her. They would flirt, try their best to impress Sansa, or attempt to worm their way into his office as Frey had, but she would be firm. Professional. Cool. And, already stung from embarrassment, Tywin would take full advantage and roast them over the glowing coals of his business._ _ _

___She would be a good investment._ _ _

___“I value your honesty, Ms. Stark,” Tywin hummed as he leaned forward. His face betrayed none of the thoughts he had just had. “When can you start?”_ _ _

___Sansa’s eyes lit up, but she kept her smile reserved. “I can send packing instructions with my father when they leave. I will need to find lodging close by.”_ _ _

___Tywin bit his tongue as he nearly offered for her to stay at Casterly. The uselessness of his hand made him nervous and he wanted insurance that his new secretary would be accessible at all times in case an emergency change needed to be made to a document. But, it was never wise to put the horses in front of the carriage and he decided that, if the need was still there, Tywin would offer after her trial period._ _ _

___“I will allow you to go and find your father to plan, then,” the Old Lion offered, “And I trust you will understand that the two weeks after you start will be a trail run, a probationary period of sorts.”_ _ _

___“Of course, I hope to impress,” Sansa replied, standing. Boldly, she reached across the table, her hand open for a handshake that common for men, not young women as herself. However, in the privacy of his own office, Tywin figured it was just excitement and Northern hospitality. He leaned forward and shook Sansa’s hand, gentle at first until he felt that her hand was firm and warm. Soft._ _ _

___He let go quickly, nodding his head towards the door. “It was a pleasure speaking to you again, Ms. Stark. I look forward to your start.”_ _ _

___“As do I, Mr. Lannister.”_ _ _


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the delay. We've had a cold snap here and I've been quite busy making sure I have plenty of wood for the fireplace (which generates the majority of the heat for my home). Lots of work in the woods makes for less time typing, thought I've been brainstorming with each passing day!  
> Not to sound like a broken record, but I am truly thankful for the comments and Kudos. Never thought that'd so many people would be drawn to the same ships as me and, for a girl who never had any formal writing classes or training, its encouraging to hear what you guys think. 
> 
> I also hope that you guys are forgiving for my timelines, as this is just a project for my own entertainment. 
> 
> Lots of love~ J

Sansa was waiting outside of her small apartment at exactly 7:00am, her arms looped around a leather bag that held her pens and papers. She was wearing the same long tartan skirt and blouse as she had the day of her interview. Truthfully, where she was staying shouldn’t be called an apartment, but rather a small attic room that sat stuffily above a red brick house only about a half mile up the road from the Casterly estate. It had been hot through the night and Sansa was savoring the early morning coolness, the calm before the heat of the day radiated in the wake of the strengthening sun. Her Gibson-styled head was high and she tried her best to forget about the tears that had been shed at the train station the evening before.

Left behind and tucked in the top drawer of the borrowed dresser was an envelope of money, both printed and gold coin. A generous parting gift from her parents the day before. 

Yesterday, at the train station out of town, her mother had hugged her before the engine had lurched its way to a stop. Catelyn Stark whispered words of encouragement in her daughters ear, patted her hair and held her at arm’s length to get one final look. Her eyes were shining, but no tears fell. 

“This is a big step,” Sansa’s mother said, cupping her cheek. “Iwant you to be cautious, vigilant. Our name means nothing here, no weight, no respect. Be careful, my darling.” Her smile seemed forced and Sansa felt the anxious pang that would sometimes come when her mother became hard to read. Was she happy? Or was she upset that her daughter had gone the route of the modern working girl instead of seeking out courtships and suitors. 

Her father was much more emotional and Sansa felt the tears well up in her eyes when he hugged her tightly. “I’m proud of you, dear. You will do such a fine job,” Ned said, stepping away and reaching into his coat pocket. He handed her the money. “This is for living costs, emergencies, supplies…if you need more just send word.” 

“I will, papa,” Sansa said, graciously hiding the gift in her beaded handbag. 

Her brothers gave her short embraces, Jon lingering longer than Robb, murmuring a brief and well-intentioned “Love you, sister,” before he broke away. He gave her a smile, “Let us know if that little punk Joffrey gives you any trouble, yeah?” 

Sansa smiled, “I’ll send a telegram immediately.” 

Jon nodded and he and Robb boarded the train. Arya lingered by her father, kicking at a rock. “So long, sister,” Sansa called to her, her tone teasing. Arya wasn’t one to find comfort in any emotions other than anger or her own happiness, but nevertheless she shrugged and gave her older sister a genuine, yet brief, embrace. 

With a flurry of final waves, Sansa bade farewell to her family. When the train shrank out of sight on the horizon, Sansa realized that, for the first time, she was truly on her own. Standing in her day gown and petticoat, she realized that she was less upset than she thought she would be, which was a positive sign and one that encouraged her. 

Now, as the two person carriage rattled up the road to pick her up the next morning, Sansa felt excitement. No tricks or interviews, no…this was her first day of real work. Tywin’s hired man was her driver, a man she had noticed standing and brooding around the estate. It was hard to not notice him, with the man’s sheer size and his unfortunate scar that was plastered across his face. Arya had whispered about it during lunch over the weekend and Sansa had hushed her, but her eyes still lingered all the same. 

Mr. Clegane had brought her to her new home after the goodbyes at the station. His name had been the only words he had muttered to her and she had figured he wasn’t the small-talk type. 

Yet that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be polite. 

“Good morning, Mr. Clegane,” she greeted. He hopped out of the carriage and walked around the horses. Unfolding the step, he held a hand for her to use as she climbed onto the bench. She thanked him. 

“Morning,” Sandor grunted in response. He could be civil, she hadn’t annoyed him yet. 

Truthfully, he had been rather put out when he had been instructed to be the man to be the Stark girl’s driver. He had been on edge as he waited for her at the station, his nerves already frayed at the thought of having to sit next to a sniveling, bleary-eyed, and probably homesick, young woman. But, as he watched her return to the carriage, he had been surprised to see that she wasn’t a sobbing mess. A handkerchief had been wrapped around her finger and held to her eyes, but she kept her emotions at bay. The ride had been quiet, just as he liked it. 

After that first ride, Sandor figured there were worse things he could’ve been asked to do. No more complaints. 

The two bumped along quietly, the cream colored horse swishing its tail. The flies were starting to wake up. 

“When does Mr. Lannister usually come down to his office?” Sansa asked as they jostled along. 

Clegane was a massive man and she didn’t really have any space to truly feel comfortable next to him on the bench, but she knew he was probably just as uncomfortable as she was. 

“Seven thirty.” 

Sansa tapped her foot. “I will make it in time?” 

Huffing a sigh, Clegane said, “Mr. Lannister is the one who told me when to leave and when you needed to be outside. The schedule is planned by him, so if you’re not there in time…not your fault I s’pose.” 

Was he trying to put her at ease? The way he grumbled it didn’t really drip with comfort, but the words were kind enough. Kinder than what would’ve been required. 

The ride was short, walkable if she had enough time and more comfortable shoes, but the carriage had been offered and it was wise of her to accept it. It was a new town, after all, and she wasn’t familiar with the land or the people. Most of the land around the estate was made up by rolling pastures, bright green and lush with the spring warmth. The drive was almost as long as the distance from Sansa’s rented room to the gate of the estate. 

Her nerves had been nice and quiet…up until the two of them pulled up to the carriage port. She saw the small form of Mr. Lannister’s son, Tyrion. He had joined them for meals once or twice, playing host while his father worked, and he was nice enough. Actually, she found him sort of wild. Funny and witty, always drinking, but he never seemed to turn into a slurring fool when they were around. Tyrion Lannister was the first dwarf that Sansa had ever seen and she had to remind herself to be polite and mature, don’t stare. 

“Good morning, Ms. Stark,” he called, hopping down the steps and flipping down the carriage step. He reached up and Sansa allowed him to help her down. “I trust your commute was pleasant?” “Very much so, I’m in good hands with your driver,” Sansa replied. Mr. Clegane snapped the reigns and the horse pulled away. 

“Would you like anything for breakfast?” Tyrion asked as the two of them made their way into the home. 

Sansa paused in the entryway, glancing to the side at the desk that was waiting for her. “No thank you, Mr. Lannister. I don’t want to impose.” 

Tyrion dropped it quickly, nodding towards the desk. “I’ll leave you to set up. I have left a note with times for today’s appointments. Once you fall into the groove it will be your job to provide that list to my father every morning, he likes to know the schedule. Almost like a muster.” He smiled crookedly. 

“Does he take breakfast in his office?” 

Tyrion followed her to the desk. “In his room, cookery staff take care of that.” 

“Thank you for being helpful,” Sansa chimed, setting her bag on the desk and withdrawing her papers and pens. Three Crosses, all in their own boxes. There was ink on the desk, a blotter, a wax melter for seals, letterheads, and a clunky typewriter. “I am grateful for your help.” 

Tyrion paused, reaching up to smooth his hair to fill the silence. He should’ve said “You’re welcome,” much sooner than this, but the words still didn’t come out. Tyrion couldn’t help but think of Shae, hidden away in the estate to keep his Father from finding her. She was resilient, strong from the hard life she had led. Sansa Stark seemed well put together and sturdy enough, but there were parts of her that were still soft. Pressure hadn’t hardened her into the type of woman that Shae had become, the type of woman that was unbothered by men’s anger. How would she fare? 

Chewing gently on the inside of his cheek, Tyrion tried not to picture his father’s wrath upon Sansa’s inevitable first mistake. He had seen him verbally lash strong men, leaving them hunched and withered. He felt like warning her…or maybe he could give her some sort of pep talk that would prepare her for the impossibly high standards of his father. 

But that would be far too personal. Instead, he said, “The girl who had this position before didn’t do a very good job. I liked her, quite a bit actually,” he confessed, his voice soft, “but she wasn’t cut out for it, for this kind of…work…I mean.” Another pause. Time to wrap it up, “You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders and a good family behind you. I hope you enjoy your time here. Do you drink coffee?” 

The end question was a surprising one, but she answered with a yes, but declined his offer to bring her some. Tyrion said he would go and fetch some for himself, since Mr. Lannister enjoyed coffee in his office anyway, what was one extra cup? He left quickly. 

Footsteps could be heard coming down the grand staircase, loud in the heel. Tywin Lannister was coming to his office. Sansa didn’t exactly know how to greet her new boss in the morning, so she picked up the note with times and names and came to stand at the edge of her desk, near the large office doors. From the front, Mr. Clegane walked in as well, finally having put the horse and carriage in the hands of the stable boys. Sandor paused in the entry, nodding his greeting for Mr. Lannister as he made his way down the last step. 

From the distance Sansa was from the stairway, Tywin’s head glowed, his white-blonde hair looking like a halo in the morning light. He was wearing linen, the suitcoat unbuttoned, and his watch chain glinting in his front breast pocket. The man’s chin was jutted upwards against the stiff collar. His right arm was clutched up to his chest and bound in the sling. He looked nearly furious. 

Sansa swallowed, seeing the angry glint in his eye and the furrow of his brow. 

“This damn thing is not healing,” Tywin spat at Clegane, as if Sandor had asked him about his injury. He glanced over to the desk, saw Sansa standing there. He regretted the curse, but it was short-lived, his annoyance demanding more of his attention than his manners did. He turned slightly so his back was to his new secretary. “Pycelle said the swelling hasn’t gone down as much as he’d hoped and I have to stay in this sling until it does.” 

Clegane shrugged, “Good thing you have help.” He ground at a toothpick with his teeth. Tywin’s eyes narrowed. 

“You’re going to choke on those.” He pointed a long finger at Clegane’s face, but his hired man was unbothered. He fell into step slightly behind Tywin as the two of them made their way to his office. 

Sansa hadn’t remembered feeling all that nervous during her interview, nothing more than expected nerves. But, as she watched the tall, lean frame of Tywin Lannister approach, she was suddenly very, very nervous. Everything felt different without her family at the estate. She was no longer a guest, she was an employee. He was looking at her, eyes flicking up and down, from her bun to her skirts. She wondered if she was dressed inappropriately. Was the tartan too flashy? 

Tywin did not say good morning, but she did. 

“Good morning, Mr. Lannister,” she made sure her voice sounded strong. 

He reached for the knob of one of the doors and pulled it open. He then turned and regarded her, noticing the piece of paper in her hands. He gave a sharp and precise nod to the doorway and Sansa hurried inside, blinking. She wished she could shake her hands and arms, anything to get rid of those pesky anxieties. 

“Is there coffee coming?” Tywin asked as Sansa stood between the two chairs that sat in front of the massive piece of oaken furniture that was his desk. 

“I believe Mr. Lannister is calling for it,” Sansa answered. 

Tywin hovered in front of his own seat, uninjured hand on the surface of the desk. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Which Mr. Lannister? There are a few of us here.” 

Sansa shifted, “Tyrion.” 

Tywin sniffed as he sat down. “I admire your manners and formality, Ms. Stark. However, you may just refer to my sons by their names. It will make things much easier.” 

“Yes sir.” 

Tywin leaned over in his chair, his free hand propping up his jaw, index finger extended up the side of his face while the other ones curled in front of his mouth. She looked nice for her first day. Her hair was conservatively wrapped in a bun on top of her head. She wore the same clothes as her interview, which he liked. It was encouraging to see that her mind was set on the work, not her wardrobe. 

Silence hung between them and Tywin was deliberate not to break it. Blinking expectantly, he jutted his chin towards the paper clutched in her hands. “Are you going to tell me what I can expect for the day? Or shall I be surprised?” The quip wasn’t overly cruel and he was willing to be more patient than usual. First day jitters, he supposed. The true test was to see how quickly she would outgrow them. Tywin expected he wouldn’t have much patience to spare if they lingered. 

“My apologies, sir,” Sansa quickly answered, holding it out and studying it. Tyrion’s handwriting wasn’t the neatest and she became acutely aware of Tywin’s eyes on her while he waited. There was a pause that came with her furrowed brow and she attempted to distinguish the letters. “You are free until lunch, and then there is a meeting with a…Petyr…Bae-” 

“Baelish,” Tywin offered. 

“Thank you, sir. That will be at twelve-thirty and it will concern the newest print of stock,” she recited. She looked up and the morning sun complimented her complexion. “Will you take your lunch before or after?” Sansa was trying to recover, learn as much about his routine as possible. 

“I don’t take lunch.” 

She pressed her lips together and gave a little nod. “Noted,” he heard her murmur to herself quietly. Sansa’s brow furrowed as she squinted at the paper again. “Then at two…you have a contract reading with both Petyr and…Varys…about the Bolton account.” 

She looked up at him, cheeks flushed with slight embarrassment. She worried her slow reading made her sound dim-witted. 

“Did my son write that for you? Tyrion?” the older man asked, letting his arm fall to the armrest of his chair while the other sat bundled in his sling. He rubbed at the metal band of his ring with his thumb. The tendons in his hand tinged, but Tywin was able to keep the discomfort from his face. 

Sansa did not look away, “Yes, sir. He did.” 

“Why?” 

“He said it would help me on the first day, Mr. Lannister,” she answered, folding up the paper. “Have I given you the wrong information?” 

“No,” Tywin mused, “not at all. Though, now I know why you struggled to read. His handwriting is awful.” There was no humor in his voice. 

As if his younger son’s ears had been burning with Tywin’s comments, there was a knock on the door. Sansa stepped to the side of the room as Mr. Clegane opened it up. Tyrion, Cersei, and a maid with a silver coffee tray stepped in. Sansa swallowed back the urge to unfold the paper and see if she had missed a coffee meeting on the top of the list, but she knew that was silly. She caught Cersei’s eye as the older woman glanced at her and gave her the smallest closed- mouth smile, the ruffles of her skirts swishing when she walked. It gave her tall, willowy frame some shape, the whalebone cinching Cersei’s waist tight before her body disappeared in the tulip-petal skirt of her dress. 

Besides the smile, Cersei all but ignored Sansa Stark once she moved past her. The young woman was an employee now, not a guest that needed entertaining or dripping hospitality. 

The servant set down the shiny tray on the coffee table that sat with the chairs by the fireplace. Cersei settled herself down gently and watched as a cup was poured for her. The help then quickly turned on her heal and removed herself from the office. Tywin did not stand from his desk. Tyrion joined his sister in the chair opposite, but poured his own drink. 

Their presence in his office made his teeth hurt as if they were cavities. 

“Ms. Stark,” Tywin called as the sound of a wooden drawer opening and shutting filled the room. Sansa’s attention snapped back to him. He was leaning forward in his chair, a leather wrap of documents held in his hand in front of him. “I want you to look these over. These are examples of stock, contracts, receipts, all important documentation you must familiarize yourself to.” 

Sansa stepped forward to accept the papers and she felt Cersei’s sharp eyes watching her, just as intense as her father’s. Tywin held Sansa with his emeralds and she reached out to take the bind. “You will be back in this office and prepared to take notes for the 12:30 meeting, yes?” 

Nodding, the woman answered, “Yes, sir.” 

Tywin nodded towards the door. She had been dismissed and she left with the provided document examples. When his new secretary closed the door behind her, he turned his attention to his children as they indulged in his own prized morning drink. 

“Can I help you two?” he asked, leaning back and turning his chair. He twisted his neck , the cords tight from both annoyance and the sling knot digging into his skin. “Is there some sort of importance this morning that I am unaware of?” 

“I just came to bring you coffee,” Tyrion quipped with a cock of the head. “Why don’t you have some?” He was looking at his sister, his feet swinging from the chair playfully. 

She ignored her younger sibling. “How is she doing?” 

“She’s only been here for twenty minutes,” Tywin grumbled lowly, turning back to his desk and flipping open the ledger that catalogued all the steel purchases for the current year. “Just how high are your expectations?” 

“Lower than yours, father,” Cersei said, the porcelain of her cup touching her lips. “Much lower.” 

If she thought her reply was clever, she would surely be mistaken. Tywin didn’t even bother with a response. His daughter liked to play games and he would not tolerate it in his office. He stared at the twist cap of his fountain pen with angry eyes. 

“Why are you here?” the Old Lion asked again as he held the pen in his left hand and attempted to unscrew the cap with the same thumb and forefinger. 

“I want Joffrey to join in your meetings today,” she said plainly, setting the cup on the saucer. Tyrion’s eyes darted between his family members and Tywin suddenly knew why he was there. Tyrion wanted to watch, absorb any possible drama he could. Tywin sometimes thought that his youngest son’s pension for conflict was a sort of escape. He liked to see his father’s bile bestowed upon someone else for a change. 

“No,” Tywin answered flatly as he finally got the cap off the pen. 

Cersei’s voice sharpened like a little thumbtack. “Why not?” 

Tywin stared at the numbers, but they were lost on him with the distraction of his children. Their demands and requests and pot-stirring made it impossible for him to focus on his work. It was as if they were crashing through the quiet, muffled haven of his workspace with cymbals and drums. 

“Because,” the patriarch Lannister snapped without looking up, “I already have the burden of training a new employee. I don’t want to put up with your son’s attitude or arrogance on top of it. I’m not a babysitter.” 

Cersei huffed a sigh and stood, trading her spot by the coffee table for the seat in front of his desk. Her voice softened as she tried a different angle. “But, father, how is he to learn the business if he can’t spend time with you?” 

Pain bloomed from his torqued and injured ligaments and his blonde head slowly rose. Eyelids narrowed in warning, Tywin asked, “Learn the business?” 

Unwavering, his daughter nodded, head high in defiance. Tyrion looked at the two of him from his spot a safe distance away. 

“Joffrey’s old enough now. I think it would be beneficial him to train under you so that he will be ready.” 

“So that he will be ready…” Tywin hissed through thin lips.

Cersei nodded. She didn’t elaborate and she didn’t need to, the hand had been played. Cersei had been expecting her horrible, immature, and impulsive son to be the one to take over Casterly Rail Company when, inevitably, Tywin died or retired… the former option being the most probable. Tywin found himself stiffening and he became very tense. The irritation of her suggestion had coiled the into a tight spring and he had the strong desire to leap across the desk and grab his daughter by the scruff of the neck and hurl her out of his office like she was a pup caught in the trash. The expectance and the selfishness of his offspring were shocking. How in the world could his ungrateful children been bred from he and his late wife’s hard working stock? 

However, no matter how angry Tywin felt, he realized that this was a fight for a different day. A day where his hand didn’t hurt and a day where he wasn’t trying to find the best way to shape Sansa Stark into the employee he wanted. Swallowing his wrath like a large and bitter pill, Tywin barked. “He will not be joining in the meetings today.” 

Puckering her thin lips as if the coffee she sipped was actually lemon juice, Cersei retorted, “Well then, when?” 

“Are you sure my lovely nephew even wants to follow in father’s footsteps, dear sister?” Tyrion called across the room, unable to resist the temptation of rubbing in the fact that Cersei wasn’t getting what she wanted. “Perhaps he’d like to try out a polo career?” 

“Shut up,” she snapped, turning to him. Tyrion smiled in response. 

“Tyrion,” Tywin warned, the threat of bickering children making his temples pulse. “You two are adults. Act like it.” 

“My apologies,” the youngest said from his seat. 

Tywin looked at his daughter and saw that there was true disappointment hidden beneath irritation caused by her little brother. She looked genuine to him and that caused a small pang of guilt. The boy’s father was dead and Joffrey hadn’t really had much chance of the rod, discipline-wise. Tywin signed, knowing full well that the easiest way around this was a compromise. And his father had taught him long ago that a truly good compromise left both sides unhappy. 

“The boy needs correction, Cersei. If he spends the day with me he will receive no special treatment. If he acts like an ass I will treat him like one, no matter the type of company I have. Is that understood?” 

Denial caked to her skin and pulled her lips into a reassuring smile, “He will be perfect. He has been excited for the chance to make it up to you, since the little accident the other day.” 

Tywin stared at Cersei and wondered just how she could describe his bandaged hand as a “little accident.” 

“There’s a meeting with Baelish,” Tywin signed, desperate to say anything to get them to leave him alone. “at 12:30. Joffrey can sit in, but he is to be quiet and observe. Otherwise I’m kicking him out.” 

“As is in your right.” 

“Good. Now if that’s all…I beg you two to get out,” he ordered, pointing at the door with his uninjured hand. He watched Tyrion slide from the chair and Cersei stood. He all but seethed as he watched them go. 

“One more thing,” the Old Lion called before his children reached the door. Both of them turned, the sunlight reflecting off of Cersei’s dusty blonde curls. Tywin couldn’t look past the self-satisfied smirk on her lips and he hated knowing that she believed she had won, that she could get anything she wanted from her dear old dad. A wake up call was in order. 

“Joffrey isn’t to speak to the Stark girl, not a word. Not even a look. I don’t want any distractions for her and she will already have to deal with Baelish today.” 

Cersei stepped away from the door, her hands clasped in front of her and head cocked. A true picture of forced and shallow grace. “A little soon to be protective, don’t you suppose, father?” she mused. She boldly let the criticism hang in the dead air of the office, Tywin glowering after her. She then grabbed the handle of the door and quickly left, Tyrion slinking out as well with an apologetic look over his shoulder. 


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> First off, I BEG of you all (if you care) to PLEASE be forgiving of my "business talk" in this chapter. I truly don't understand stocks and bonds or how companies make money off of them, but I tried my best with some research! I work in forensics, not business, thank you all for your patience!
> 
> Stannis Baratheon is our Henry Ford of the story, and I'm utilizing Ford's assembly lines and production plants in this chapter, not so much the automobile.   
> Again, every Kudos and Comment is so appreciated, there are some of you that I ADORE hearing from consistently and I couldn't do it without you! -J

The hours ticked by quietly once the Cersei and Tyrion had left their father’s office. Sansa had studied the documents thoroughly and she sat bored, waiting for something to happen or for her to be called. She watched as the staff bustled around the main entryway of the estate. The males opened windows and tied back the curtains once the female maids had dusted and swept. She liked watching them work, it gave her something to do. However, the house workers were a well-oiled machine and they only provided little entertainment.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa kept watch of Mr. Clegane as he sat on a simple, tall stool next to Tywin’s office. He would lean back sometimes, shifting his weight as his tailbone probably began to grow sore on the unpadded seat. At around eleven o’clock, he propped one leg on the bottom rung, crossed his arms, and let out a sigh. Sansa looked over at him. The marred side of the man’s face couldn’t be seen from the way he sat and the wool cap was pulled down so the brim hung low over his eyes. 

She cleared her throat. “Do you think I should be checking in? In case Mr. Lannister needs anything?” she asked, a little unsure. She would have preferred to ask the question to someone like Tyrion, but they were the only two in the massive room. 

Tilting his head back against the papered wall, he muttered, “Has he called for anything?” 

“No, not that I’ve heard.” 

Mr. Clegane shrugged his large shoulders. “Then be a smart worker. Not a hard one.” 

She saw the lesson in the sparse words. Don’t make unnecessary work for yourself. A strand of hair pulled uncomfortably at the back of her neck, tucked up in her bun too tightly. She reached up and picked at it. “Do you have to stay there all day?” 

There was no answer from the hired man. She shifted in her wood and leather-padded office chair. It was comfortable, more so than she expected. And Mr. Clegane’s stool looked much too small for his hulking frame. 

“Are you uncomfortable?” 

“No.” 

It was quickly becoming obvious that her companion would not be a chatty one, nor a good distraction for the crawling minutes. The desk was organized in the meantime. Items were placed in possible places and drawers, moved this way and that if she decided the surface of the desk looked too cluttered. The young woman tried not to be impatient. She knew that, often times, first days had lulls and rushes. Eyeing the thick stack of documents, Sansa Stark had no doubt that she would soon be too busy to even notice the passing hours. 

With a half hour more to go and desperate for something to look at besides Clegane on his stool, Sansa re-opened the document sleeve and decided to give them another study. Thin, tissue-like carbon copy receipts held numbers that seemed impossibly high, but simple arithmetic would be able to handle them. A contract with some grain company was provided, clamped with a metal piece to keep the pages together. However, out of the whole stack, the bonds were particularly interesting to her. 

Large, rectangular sheets of pressed parchment were framed with a spider-webbing of red ink. A stamped lion was pressed in the top center of the border, a crown sitting atop its head. “Fixed interest bond for Casterly Rail Company,” read the calligraphy, bold and brash against the white of the paper. She felt as if she was looking at a hidden puzzle, so many were the small details. She spun her chair to face towards the expanse of open doors that led to the garden patio and held the document up to the light. A stamped watermark, pressed much thinner than the rest of the cardstock, sat on the lower right corner, a capital T and L, overlaid across each other and surrounded by a loop of railroad track. 

“Surely you can’t be that near-sighted?” came a quipping and lilting voice from behind her. Sansa quickly lowered the paper and spun around to find a smaller man standing in the foyer, a leather briefcase at his side. The man was very neat, with dark and well-manicured facial features. Gray stretched at his temples as if he had been swatched by a paintbrush. 

Sansa cleared her throat and placed the bond back in the file. “Mr. Baelish?” 

A small smile played at his lips as he approached, his shoes crowned by spats. His trousers were tailored to be straight legged and pinstriped. She stood as she got closer and he noticed his dark eyes glance at Clegane, then back at her. They traveled upwards to her hair, then down the rest of her to her skirt. She felt like a horse for sale, his gaze pricking at her skin. Men always looked at her, she wasn’t naive to think they didn’t, so Sansa ignored it. But was sure not to forget about his little observation. 

“Please,” he hummed, giving her a little bow, “Petyr is just fine. May I have your name?” 

Unbeknownst to her, Petyr Baelish already knew just who she was, as well as knowing all about her family. 

“Oh, of course. I’m Ms. Stark,” Sansa replied, keeping the formality. Clegane straightened up on his stool in her peripheral. Her interaction was being watched. “I’m training as Mr. Lannister’s new secretary.” 

Petyr rocked back on his heels, his eyebrows furrowed. “Oh, what happened to that other girl that Tyrion brought in? I liked her.” 

There was something off about Mr. Baelish’s tone and Sansa grew wary. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I suppose that was before I started and isn’t any of my business,” she said carefully. Petyr Baelish was the first of the shifty businessmen that would undoubtedly grace the front of her new desk. It would be better to be too cautious then too trusting. 

Sansa looked at the desk clock. Petyr Baelish arrived inconveniently early. Her mother made mention that proper earliness was always appreciated if it was within the ten minute window. Anything more than could be construed as impatient or pushy and Sansa already suspected that her new employer was extraordinarily particular, so twenty-four minutes would most likely be a bother. 

But she wouldn’t let Baelish convince her otherwise. Her desk was outside of the office for a reason. “You are early, Mr. Baelish,” Sansa sweetly chimed, ignoring his suggestion of first name familiarity, “Plenty of time to spare. Please have a seat and perhaps I can send for refreshments?” 

Smile wavering, Petyr blinked as he took her in. “No, I’m fine, thank you.” He settled down in the chair facing her desk and Sansa sat as well, folding up the leather document sleeve. The briefcase was placed in his lap and he settled in the chair, leaning over slightly and propping himself up with an elbow. He narrowed his eyes almost playfully. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Catelyn Stark, formerly Tully, would you?”

Curiosity ticked Sansa’s head to the side, just a small flinch of a movement. “I’m her daughter.” 

This answer seemed to please Mr. Baelish. He gave the slightest of winks and pointed at the girl. “Ah, I knew it. You look just like her. I grew up with your mother. We were childhood…friends, you see. Back in the Riverlands. Do you visit her land much?” 

“No, not very often,” Sansa answered as she dug a clipboard out of one of the large bottom drawers of the desk. It had been left behind. She began to ready her notepaper. “I have family there still.” 

“Ah, your uncle must be Edmure. See,” Petyr hummed, leaning over with an air of conspiracy, “I was a small boy and they used to call me Littlefinger.” He winked and added in near whisper, “Don’t tell anyone.” 

Sansa watched him from across the desk. Part of her was drawn to him, appreciating his ease. The confidence was infectious and it made him feel more familiar than he actually was. After all, he had grown up with her mother and the small talk was natural, as if she were an acquaintance. 

“Let her work, Baelish,” Clegane called from his stool. Petyr’s head cocked towards him yet his eyes didn’t leave Sansa. He ignored Clegane. “So then this past weekend your father signed a contract with Casterly. Quite a large order, if I’m not mistaken. Surely you weren’t part of the deal?” he schemed, fingertips tapping on the surface of his briefcase. 

“Of course not,” Sansa carefully replied, “but my father did request a secretarial position for me, should I be able to impress Mr. Lannister, of course..” 

His moustache moved with his smile and when he spoke his words were quiet, almost to himself. “Well…I suppose that if you’re sitting there that would mean the Old Lion found something about you that he liked. ” 

The longer they talked, the more Sansa found herself wishing that Petyr Baelish would look somewhere else. After he had commented on the weather, the estate, and the expectations of the coming week, Sansa glanced at the desk clock and noticed that their little chat had finally neared them to the ten minute window. Collecting her papers, a filled pen, and her clipboard, she stood. “Excuse me, Mr. Baelish, I’ll go see if Mr. Lannister is ready for you now.” 

“Of course,” Baelish hummed and she felt his eyes on her when she turned away and walked towards the door. She reached for it, her fist hovering in front of the wood as she swallowed back her nerves. Just as she was about to knock, she was stopped by the gruff sound of Mr. Clegane clearing his throat. 

There was an unpleasant look on the man’s face when he stood from his seat and was next to her in barely two strides. She caught a whiff of tobacco smoke on his clothes. Reaching for the knob, Clegane muttered, “Don’t humor him.” He then opened the door and stepped in and off to the side, leaving Sansa in direct line of vision to Tywin at his desk. The crest of his blonde head was dipped as he looked at the pages of a ledger. 

Sansa stepped in and spoke, trying her best to sound comfortable. “Mr. Baelish is here for his twelve-thirty meeting, Mr. Lannister.” 

Tywin looked up, his face expressionless, almost as if he was looking past her. He didn’t speak right away, but instead rolled his shoulders and moved his neck in order to adjust the sling. Closing the ledger he said, “Just him?” 

“Uh, yes. Just Mr. Baelish,” Sansa reported, puzzled. 

“Alright then. Send him in.” 

When she turned, she saw that Baelish was already standing in the doorway, holding his briefcase and completely superseding the action of Sansa escorting him inside. Feeling foolish, she just said, “Come in.” 

“Thank you, Ms. Stark,” Petyr quipped, brushing past her and heading to the fireplace chairs. “and thank you for the small talk, it was lovely to pass the time with you.” 

Sansa looked over and found Tywin’s green eyes trained on her, his mouth a pressed line. The feeling of ice water washed over her when she noticed his thumb tap against his chair in two solid, unrushed hits, before he stood. Mr. Lannister was irked and she was sure it would only be a matter of time until she found out why.

Clegane closed the door and left the three of them alone. Sansa stood, wondering where exactly to go. There wasn’t a small writing desk available to her and she noticed that there were only two chairs by the fireplace. 

“Are you going to take notes standing, Ms. Stark?” Tywin called, his voice wavering on a bark. 

Blinking, she responded, “Forgive me sir, where would you like me to sit?” 

“I will stand, this will be brief and I have been sitting for far too long.”

Sansa hurried to the other seat, her skirt swishing with the movement, and she settled down, ankles tucked together and clipboard resting on her lap. The briefcase was sitting on the table between them. Tywin watched as she deftly readied her pen with both hands and he glowered with jealousy. His eyes flicked to Baelish and he saw that the other man was watching Stark very closely . Too closely. Tywin decided that he wanted to know what “small talk” had been said. Baelish had a reputation of placing double meanings within his words. 

“Ms. Stark,” Tywin prompted, “This meeting was planned before your employment so I will fill you in. However it’s important to know that, in the future, it will be your responsibility to know the circumstances of each meeting so that you can prioritize your note taking. Understood?” 

“Yes, Mr. Lannister.” 

“Good,” he stood next to her chair, towering above her as he looked at Petyr, “a rather large amount of stock that was held for years was sold back to us by Stannis Baratheon’s production company. And, in a show of good luck, the original interest was already applied before sale, so we have made a profit. Mr. Baelish and I are discussing just where and how that profit should be spent.” 

“I understand, Mr. Lannister.” 

Giving a curt, yet pleased, nod, Tywin motioned to the case. He wanted Baelish to open it. 

He did, but he made a comment, “How is your hand? I understand you injured it quite badly the other day…”

A sharp hiss could be heard by Sansa as Tywin sucked in his breath angrily. If Petyr had heard it, he pretended he hadn’t. 

The case was opened and dense stack, nearly two inches thick, of slightly worn bonds sat in front of them, not a pristine stack, but impressive all the same. Sansa stared at them. Tywin reached his palm out expectantly. She looked up at him, then back at the case. Understanding, she quickly leaned forward and picked one off the stack, placing it in Tywin’s expectant hand. He turned and held it to the light just as she had earlier. The watermark could be seen. 

“These stocks will be a 0.5% profit for this quarter,” Petyr said. The percentage seemed minute, but for a company as rich as Casterly Rail, Sansa knew that the number would have zeros behind it, enough to make it significant. 

Tywin turned back and handed the document back to Sansa. “What market are we going to resell to?” 

Sansa rubbed the paper between her index and thumb as Baelish answered, “Perhaps the South? It seems as if the Tyrells need some persuading. They have been favoring smaller rail companies. Perhaps some of this profit could of use as padding for a deal?” 

Tywin waved his hand, “Stark’s oil will make up for that. I’m sick and tired of chasing Mace Tyrell like a hound chases tail. He thinks he’s the biggest fish in this pond as far as product and I’m done.” 

The swell of pride in Sansa’s chest was hidden, but she noticed Petyr’s eyes flick to her at the mention of her father’s name. She went back to staring at the bond, her eyebrows starting to furrow. This paper looked…no, felt…different than the example that sat at her desk. Perhaps they had used a different printing press in the recent years? 

“Perhaps the logging in the North? Bear Timber Company has been good to us and our construction. I’m sure there are small outfitters up there that would like a train to ship their wares or some interest to help them through the slow season,” Petyr offered. 

“The far North is a hard market,” Tywin responded, taking a few steps and beginning to slowly pace as he thought. His heels clicked on the marble floor with each lazy stride. “They favor small businesses, community stores. And they rarely export, which is why their timber, wool, and furs are so expensive down here. It’s the demand that fuels them, not the supply.” 

“Keep the profit for now, but keep it from the accounts in Braavos. I don’t need unnecessary taxes on something I will eventually be spending. Label it as something inconspicuous, or if it does make it to the bank provide proper paperwork so that we may write it off as a deductible.” 

Tywin looked at the girl, interested to see what she deemed important enough to write down. The conversation had been mostly musing, ideas bouncing off each other, but there was some importance there that he hoped she would’ve picked up on. Lannister was surprised to find her still looking at the stock he had handed back to her, chin dipped and fingers rubbing at it like a habit. 

He loomed over her. “I suggest you write that down, as a prompt for next year’s taxes.” 

“Sir…I think….”

She trailed off , bringing the document closer to her face. Tywin watched as her face became pinched with concentration. Baelish was smiling at her, finding humor in her hunched shoulders and determined expression. She then reached forward and grabbed another document, comparing the two of them. 

Tywin’s face darkened and he gripped the large back of the chair. “Ms. Stark, what exactly are you doing?” 

“These are fake,” Sansa finally answered, her voice clear and resolute. “These are forged documents.” 

There was a brief pause of surprise before Petyr laughed. “How impressive! A secretary with an eye for forgery” 

Leaning over and snatching one of the papers from Sansa, Tywin felt heat rise in his belly. He held it up to the light again and a brief swell of relief filled him when he saw the watermark once more. 

“They all have the marks, sir, I made the clerks check before I brought them here. She must be mistaken.” 

The laughs coming from Petyr Baelish infuriated Tywin. As far as the Old Lion was concerned, if his employee acted boldly or foolishly then it was a reflection of himself. After all, Tywin had been the one to hire her. He was glad his back was to the smaller man, the sound was enough to set him off and he didn’t want to look at him another second. The T and the L were correct, encircled by the rail. 

Perhaps Sansa Stark seemed to believe that she was just a little bit cleverer than she actually was. 

“What a bold statement, I hope for your sake you can explain yourself. Just how is it you can tell?” Tywin then snapped, rounding on his secretary. Initially, Sansa seemed unfazed when she tilted her chin up to look at him, but as he looked closer he could see her bright blue eyes begin to darken when faced with his doubt. Her lips pressed together so tightly she looked nearly petulant. 

Sansa stood up without waiting for permission and quickly crossed the room to the door. Tywin watched her, his face darkening with every step she took. Just how smart did this girl think she was? Hopefully she had realized her blunder and was removing herself out of embarrassment. 

But no, Sansa Stark had quickly returned with the leather document case in her hands. She looked fearless, any apprehension Tywin had thought he had seen earlier was gone. She was determined, confident, with her head held high. 

The Old Lion found himself clenching his jaw as he watched her stride back to the table, her eyes meeting with his and refusing to look away. Very rarely was he ever faced with people who held him in their gaze so boldly. With a sinking stomach, he knew she was right without even seeing her proof. Her fearlessness was not a good omen, people were only that unafraid when they were fueled by the truth and they knew it. 

Unceremoniously, she pulled the example document out of the sleeve and let it drop to the floor while she grabbed one from the brief case. She stepped to Tywin and stood slightly in front of him, holding both of them up next to each other so he could see. He hovered over her shoulder. Had he not been blinded by tunnel vision, he would’ve been close enough to tell that she used lemon soap. 

Baelish was no longer laughing. 

“Your lion wears a crown in the original,” Sansa explained as if they were children and she was the schoolmarm. “The ones brought today there is no crown. Also, the ink on the boarder is a brighter red, it hasn’t had time to fade. These were printed fresh and then roughed up to look like they were a few years old, but the ink is still vibrant.” 

Tywin looked at the lion first. Sure enough the crown was missing. She was also correct about the ink. 

“Feel the paper,” Sansa offered, “The parchment of the original has a smooth surface, similar to vellum. This feels like flat paper.” 

Reaching out and around Sansa, Tywin felt the corner of each and felt exactly what she had described. The red from the frame of the bond leached out and slowly filled his vision with an enraged tint. Tywin Lannister had just been made a fool. 

A low growl started in his throat and he whirled around to Petyr Baelish, his tall frame moving with a lethal and abrupt quickness. “Did you know about this?” he roared, pointing at the case full of useless and worthless paper. “Because, so help you, Baelish, if I find out you knew or had anything to do with this I will have your hide!” 

Sansa hurriedly stepped away from Tywin Lannister. Baelish was standing now, his hands held up as he begged his clueless defense. 

“I had no idea, the clerks-”

“For Gods’ sake, which clerks?! The cogs at the bank? Or the clerks for our accountants?” 

“The accountants!” 

“My own staff can’t even notice fake documents? It had to be done after the sale by my _secretary _?!” Tywin was seething, his lips curled like a lion’s snarl, his white teeth flashing with every word.__

__He lunged at the briefcase and slammed it shut. Clasping the handle, he threw it at Baelish, who luckily caught it. Sansa watched with wide eyes. She had never seen such a frightening man before. His face was a twisted sneer and he jabbed a finger at Petyr, towering over him as he did so._ _

__“Seventy-thousand pieces of gold, Baelish, you useless, conniving idiot! That’s what you have cost me!”_ _

__Petyr was still trying to make excuses, but Tywin’s voice was so much louder as he bellowed over him._ _

__By this time, the door opened. All three of them turned to see Clegane standing next to Joffrey, a look of pure entertainment on his face. The interruption was like the crack of a whip, stunning everyone involved. Tywin straightened and reached up with his hand to smooth the sides of his hair._ _

__“Sorry I’m late but-”_ _

__“Get. Out.” Tywin hissed, he wasn’t shouting any more, but the lethality in his voice dripped like crude and dangerous oil. Even Joffrey could tell he did not want to be a part of what was happening._ _

__Clegane ushered him out and the door shut without complaint._ _

__Tywin’s chest was heaving slightly, the anger and screaming emptying his lungs. He looked at Sansa and saw the fear on her face. He then turned to Petyr. When he spoke again his voice was barely above a whisper._ _

__“I don’t care about how you do it, but I want Stannis Baratheon here. I want to know how the fuck he thought he could do this to me. And I also want to know why.”_ _

__Petyr nodded quickly, leaving with hurried footsteps._ _

__His back was to Sansa Stark and as his emotions started to dissipate he suddenly felt uncomfortable. He had lost more money than seventy-thousand in one afternoon and had never lost his cool like that. But those instances had been losses in fair fashion. This had been a trick, and a dirty one at that. Stannis Baratheon’s production yards had made plenty of money without selling or losing anything in return. Ill-gotten gains. Tywin’s employees had grown lax, trustful that the leader up top would take care of them and that had made them vulnerable. Made him vulnerable._ _

__All it took was a new pair of eyes to spot the wool that was being pulled down._ _

__“Sit down,” Tywin instructed, still not facing Sansa. He heard her hurried clicks on the floor and when he turned around she was sitting in the chair by his desk. She was watching him very closely, unsure as a barn cat that had finally been let inside. She didn’t shy away as he came to stand in front of her, partially leaning against his desk._ _

__“What of the watermark?” Tywin finally asked quietly after staring at the floor for a moment. “How do you suppose they managed that?”_ _

__Sansa shrugged, “Well…Baratheon has a production line, no? Perhaps they made a metal press with a reference and applied weight to each one, just enough to thin the paper around it so light could shine through. It wasn’t a true watermark.”_ _

__There was a pause as Tywin absorbed her words. She felt the need to continue._ _

__“Sir, it was a hunch, I’m no expert. I just spent a lot of time looking at the paper back at my desk. Had it not been fresh in my mind I probably would not have-”_ _

__Closing his eyes and holding up his palm, Tywin interrupted her._ _

__“Don’t make excuses for good work. Ever.”_ _

__Had she not just witnessed a terrifying show of anger from Tywin Lannister, she would’ve smiled with pride. The man was surprising in his fury, moving as if he was a much younger man. But even in the height of his rage he seemed in control. Sansa hadn’t worried that Lannister would’ve struck or throttled Baelish, but he had made sure that they both knew he had the ability to if he wished it. And that was what was the most startling of all._ _

__Tywin let his hand fall to his side and he tapped at the wood of the desk. He was very close to her, the shiny shoe of his large foot only a few inches away from the hem of her skirt as he leaned against the desk._ _

__“Thank you. You’ve proven that perhaps I should think twice before I doubt you.”_ _

__Graciously, she accepted his gratitude and stood to leave. , “You’re welcome, Mr. Lannister. Will that be all?”_ _

__In a surprising lack of formality, Tywin shrugged. “No,” he said, tilting his head upwards and finding her bright blue eyes. The sling dug into his neck and he felt tired. He regarded her carefully, looking into the face that he had previously thought was young and polite, smart but with room to learn. Now, as his anger was waning, replaced by the waxing shame of being tricked, he recognized her as sharp and intelligent. Perhaps she would prove to be a much more valuable tool than he had originally thought._ _

__“Cancel the Bolton meeting today. We have a mess ahead of us.”_ _

__“Yes, sir.”_ _


	8. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! There will be an update very soon, I promise! I'm trying to set the stones for some conflict and I promise the next few chapters will provide some action. Thank you all, you are probably bored out of your skull with these dialogue heavy chapters. Maybe I will try to adjust the flow of things to make them more exciting. Thank you all for reading and thank you for the comments and kudos, you guys are honestly so kind to leave your opinions and I value them all!  
> Lots of love- J

Joffrey was lounging in front of Sansa’s desk, his feet propped up on the edge as he busied his hands crumpling and un-crumpling a piece of paper. Clegane was standing and glowering as he made himself comfortable. Sansa turned to the large man, hopeful that Tywin’s grandson was out of earshot if she spoke lowly enough.

“If I needed to send a telegraph, how would I go about that?” 

“They really tossed you into this job without any floats,” he mumbled, eyeing Joffrey. “Buzzer on the desk. Staff will come and act as a courier. Write out what you want to send and to whom.” 

“Thank you.” 

Joffrey was craning his neck to look at the two, an eyebrow cocked. “What are you bothering her with, Clegane?” he called in false bravado. 

“I was just asking him a question,” Sansa answered while Sandor stayed quiet. She came to the desk. Joffrey did not remove his feet. 

“You can ask me questions.” 

He watched as she located a buzzer button on the surface of the desk. A whining chime resounded through the room and she heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching almost immediately. Taking her pen, she wrote out a short prompt, the ink gliding on the high quality letterhead satisfyingly. 

“Please send this to the main office of Bolton Steel,” Sansa instructed once a dark-haired male servant arrived. “Emphasize the apology for any inconvenience if you can. Thank you.” 

“Of course.” 

He turned and disappeared out the front door. It had been that easy. 

“You’re not used to having servants, are you?” Joffrey asked after Sansa sat down. “You don’t have to thank them, you know.” 

The bottoms of his shoes were dirty with gravel dust. 

Pulling out a planner and opening it to the front and blissfully empty page, Sansa began to take notes of the day, bulletins to jog her memory in case she ever needed to recall a day’s proceedings. 

“A secretary is supposed to be polite.” 

Joffrey gave a small scoff and sat up, his feet thankfully returned to the floor. “I don’t think we’ve been able to formally meet, have we? But,” he offered, leaning forward and giving a crooked grin, “I must say that I noticed you this past weekend.” 

It was true, during the Starks’ stay at Casterly they had never truly spent time with Tywin’s grandchildren. Cersei had made countless mentions of Sansa meeting her son, yet the boy had been scampering around the estate like a monkey with his group of pals. His birthday had extended the full weekend and he had even left to go to other parties around town. Cersei never apologized for his behavior. Instead, she just sat back and murmured something along the lines of “boys, you know,” while she sipped her numerous glasses of wine. The two youngest were hidden away just as much, preoccupied with governesses and tutors. 

He leaned on the edge of his chair and stuck out his hand. “Let’s break the ice then. I’m Joffrey Baratheon, grandson of the great Tywin.” 

Sansa reached forward, “Sansa Stark.” 

The young man cradled her hand, reaching forward and boldly giving it a brief kiss across the desk. She withdrew rather quickly. The act was tacky in the daytime and should have been reserved for evening balls or romance novels. 

“May I be bold,” Joffrey asked, leaning back in his seat. He lounged in it as if he tried to cover every inch with his form. Perhaps it made him feel larger. 

Sansa supposed he was the type to be bold without needing permission. And just as suspected, he spoke again without giving her much of a chance to respond. 

“You seem far too pretty to be a working girl. Why are you spending your time behind a desk, shuffling papers for my grandfather?” 

“I like to work,” Sansa replied, “Her first impressions of seeing him drunk at his birthday party and his boldness from today had turned her icy. “Prettiness can go away after at time.” 

“Not if you care enough to maintain it,” he mused. “When you work then you don’t have time. I’ve seen plenty of women with potential turn into plain Jane broads over time. Not one cute maid in this house.” 

Joffrey Baratheon was an ass. A young, brash, ass. 

“That’s why I enjoy going to town so much, and off to college,” he drawled, waving his hand for unneeded emphasis. “The townie girls are so much more fun, not as…uptight. I’m like a celebrity to them.” 

Sansa didn’t feel like responding to his waggling brow, so she shuffled some papers around. 

“Never been up north,” Joffrey tried, craning his neck to try to spy on what she was doing. “But I’ve seen Northern girls down here. Don’t like how they dress much, seems plain to me.” 

“Most of us dress practically, the weather can be spiteful.” 

“I suppose I am fond of furs,” the young man mused. He switched tactics once again. “Just what was my grandfather so upset about? Seemed like Baelish was royally fucked.” 

“Unfortunately, that would be a question for Mr. Lannister, should he decide to answer it.” Her loyalty surprised her and she realized it was less about loyalty and more about being difficult to Joffrey. 

“Oh, come on,” he pushed, “you can tell me. He’s my grandfather. I’m going to be taking over some day.” 

“If you would like I could see if he has the time to speak with you, that would be no trouble.” Sansa’s voice was kind, yet firm. Unyielding. 

Joffrey’s face darkened quite abruptly and Sansa was surprised at how quickly he had changed. She was used to manners, hidden disappointments and tight lips. But faced with his bold mood change she suddenly regretted her words. 

“Tell me what the commotion was about,” Joffrey demanded, sitting up. His eyes darted to Sandor as the large man stood from his stool, the biting tone from Joffrey alerting him to the growing tensions. “I am entitled to that information; I was supposed to be in on that meeting. I would’ve found out anyway.” 

Jaw set, she responded, “Yet I did not see you in the room. I do not feel comfortable sharing Mr. Lannister’s information without permission.” 

“You can’t withhold information from a family member and associate.” Joffrey was pointing rudely at her, speaking through his teeth. It was truly remarkable how quickly he had turned into a foot-stamping boy. He had expected her to be impressed by him, lean forward across her desk and bat her eyelashes while she attempted to win him over with gossip. The sting of her rejection turned into embarrassment, which had quickly sparked into anger. 

“That’s enough, Joffrey,” Clegane called. Joffrey’s head snapped over to him, standing up. “Oh, I suppose you want to step in and help the pretty girl, dog?” he jeered. “Just sit on your stool and butt out.” 

“You left the room,” Clegane responded coolly. He hadn’t even bristled at the younger man’s venomous words. “If you were supposed to be in that meeting, why didn’t you stay?” 

“Don’t talk to me that way. You’re just the help, sniffing at my grandfather’s heel, waiting for your commands.” 

“Perhaps next meeting you should show up on time.” 

Joffrey sprang to his feet, his face a reddened and sour pucker. He looked like he was one step away banging his fists on the ground. 

“Mr. Clegane,” a clear and warning voice echoed through the room. All three of them turned to look at the open doors to the garden patios. Cersei had stepped in, the sun from outside clinging to her blonde hair which were curled and pinned, half up and half down. From a distance, she looked youthful and beautiful like some sort of princess, but as she neared Sansa could see the frown lines to her mouth and the crease between her brows. 

“I don’t appreciate you speaking to my son in that tone.” 

The big man shrugged. “Apologies, ma’am.” 

Ma’am…matronly. Her father had explained the family to her over the weekend. In the old and stuffy customs back home, she would be referred to as Widow Baratheon, or possibly Widow Lannister if the marriage was short and she had reverted back to her maiden name. But Clegane hadn’t acknowledged her status at all. 

“Mmm,” Cersei hummed through her painted lips as she neared Sansa’s desk. “Joffrey, be good and accept Mr. Clegane’s apology. Surely he was just feeling out of sorts.” Joffrey didn’t acknowledge Tywin’s hired man. Instead, he turned to his mother. “They are hiding information from me.” 

“Oh, my boy, I’m sure Ms. Stark here is just being overly cautious to impress your grandfather. She just wants it to seem like she’s doing a good job,” Cersei mused, a dangerous undertone lurking beneath the words. “Isn’t that right?” 

The question was directed towards Sansa and she bristled. But perhaps arguing with Joffrey’s mother would prove to be a stupid mistake so soon in her employ. She had not bared witness to Tywin’s interactions with his family and it was too much of a risk to assume that he was not loyal and doting to her, his only daughter. 

“Yes,” Sansa finally offered, still seated behind her desk. 

The older woman smiled at her, but the creases did not meet her eyes. “See, dear? Don’t fault the poor girl for trying her best to impress. She is just making sure to not disappoint on her first day and I’m sure she will familiarize herself with our family soon.” 

Sansa watched as the very tip of Cersei’s tongue pressed between her teeth, her eyes darting up and down and taking in Sansa’s blouse and straight a-lined skirt, unpopular with the wealthy, who typically desired large bustles at the small of the back. 

“Joffrey dear,” Cersei hummed with a cock of her head, “Why don’t you go and fetch your uncle and have the staff ready a carriage. I think a shopping trip to town would be beneficial. The seasons are changing after all.” 

Joffrey’s eyes lit up and he tugged at the cuffs of his blazer, the shiny gold buttons catching in the afternoon light. “Amazing idea. I could use some new clothes,” he sneered as he wandered off to locate Jaime Lannister. His clothes looked brand new, but Sansa supposed wealth created its own kind of boredom that only shopping could quell. 

Once her son was out of earshot, Cersei took another step towards the desk, looming and leering. “I will not tolerate disrespect to my children, is that understood?” 

Sansa did not look away, she was no child that needed reprimanding on the playground. 

Her lack of response made Cersei smile dangerously. “You know, I would feel much more comfortable bringing this little incident up to my father so that he may properly catalogue any misunderstandings.” 

“With all due respect, ma’am,” Sansa ventured, “Mr. Lannister has just had something rather serious come up in his last meeting and I don’t think it would be wise to disturb him.” 

When it comes to conversation, one tends to become aware of triggers and hooks. Things that reel in or endear the person they are talking to versus topics that set-off and sour the mood. Sansa realized with the sharp and angular pinching of Cersei’s brow that she had just presented the woman with a trigger, digging into her previously camouflaged anger and yanking it to the surface. 

“Oh,” she hissed, “you don’t think it would be wise. Well, aren’t you the loyal little gate-keeper.” Cersei straightened, chin jutted out defiantly. “Let’s get one thing straight, Ms. Stark. Tywin Lannister is my grandfather and I don’t need some little outsider deciding when I can and cannot see him. Especially one on her first day.” 

She brushed past Sansa’s desk and clicked her heels towards Tywin’s door. Clegane was watching closely, glancing from the self-proclaimed matriarch to Sansa. With her head held high Cersei strode in without allowing Sandor to open the door for her. 

Tywin looked up and spotted the haughty yet angry look on his daughter’s face and he knew his day was not about to get any easier. 

“Have I no peace?” he growled, leaning back in his chair, his arm tied close to his chest. “What now? What is it that you could possibly want?”

Cersei didn’t respond to him and it was possible she had simply ignored his words. “I want her gone,” she called, her hand on the door and she was about to close it. 

“Leave it open,” Tywin ordered. 

If she had faltered, she hid it well, but she came closer to his desk. “Your little secretary disrespected Joffrey today, as well as myself. I won’t stand for it.” 

Tywin’s eyes were dark as he stared at his daughter, all wrapped up in her gilded pride, chin jutted out and mouth pressed in a hard line. He punctuated the silence with his thumb tapping against his chair, as was his habit. An annoyed tick. Tension tightened the muscles of his jaw and he simply stared at her and her hurt feelings, uncaring to all the things she did not know. 

“Ms. Stark!” Tywin barked, his voice travelling easily to Sansa’s ears through the open door. Clegane gave a scoff and she quickly stood, hurrying to the office. Her stomach felt like a black pit. 

When she walked into Tywin Lannister’s office she could feel the tension stick to her skin like spider webs. 

“Yes, sir?” she said, her voice politely proper. 

“It seems my daughter has a complaint and, since it has something to do with you, I thought it would be best for you to be present,” Tywin growled through his teeth, yet he was not looking at Sansa. His eyes were trained on Cersei. “Well…go on.” 

Cersei swallowed. “She was holding information from my son, who, as you remember, should be entitled to whatever information he wishes to know, since he will be training to assist with the business. And, when I requested to see you, she resisted. And I will not have some stranger dictate when I can see my family.” 

Tywin gently rubbed the fingertips of his injured hand with his thumb, the tender ligaments craving the stretch and movement. He closed his eyes in a very long blink and Sansa felt her heart thump against her chest. It was impossible to read the man and she worried she had come on too strongly against Cersei. 

“Ms. Stark?” he finally asked before opening his eyes. “Is this true?” 

She would not argue, he did not ask for her defense. He asked a simple yes or no question. “Yes, Mr. Lannister.” 

Tywin looked at Cersei. “It seems to me that, according to your version of events, Ms. Stark did a very poor job of preventing you from seeing me, since you are standing right here. Wasting my time.” 

The bitterness sharpened the last of his words and they had slipped through his teeth in a snarling murmur. Cersei blinked in disbelief. 

“Your son was supposed to be a part of my meeting, on time, quiet, and attentive. He was not there. He couldn’t manage to walk across the house to make it to something on time. So how, dear daughter, do you suppose he’s entitled to information that he didn’t care enough to learn in the first place?” 

“He is your grandson and a part of this family,” Cersei argued. 

“Then he should know how much I value timeliness.” 

Sansa could not see Cersei’s face, but she could tell that each muscle in the woman’s body was tense and ready to spring. 

“Wasted opportunities are not my secretary’s responsibility, nor is it her problem to solve. She is not a mediator nor is she an informant.” 

“But, she would not let me-”

Tywin silenced her with the raising of a hand, “This is foolish. You are here, complaining against my employee, so in no way did she prevent you from coming in here.” 

“Father, I told her it would be wise for you to be aware of her mistake of treating Joffrey in such a manner and she refused to let me in, I’m sure she did not want to be reprimanded and was doing it as an act of defiance.” 

For the first time since being called in, Tywin glanced at Sansa, his eyes bright and sharp like gemstones. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch when she saw how calm and reserved she was in the wake of his daughter’s ill-disguised tantrum. Her back was straight, the tartan barely brushing the floor and she held his gaze fully, not looking down or away sheepishly. He wanted to smile. Yet he did not. 

“Ms. Stark, come here,” he requested. She gave a nod and stepped towards them. Cersei huffed. “Did you tell Cersei she could not come in here? Did you deliberately impede her to save your hide?” 

“Sir, if I may explain?” 

“Please do.” 

“I informed Mrs. Baratheon that you have just dealt with a rather stressful meeting and have learned some bad news that will require many hours of work to deal with. I merely gave my opinion that it would not be wise to disturb you. If I was disrespectful or if I assumed wrongly, I apologize, as that was not my intention.” 

Twyin’s lips twitched once more, but when he looked at Cersei’s puckered face he was able to resist it easily. “Very well, Ms. Stark. You may go back to your desk, and if you would, please close the door behind you.” 

Sansa gave a nod, her red hair glowing atop her head and she quickly left the room. 

“How can you just let her-”

“ _Enough _,” Tywin growled, standing up. “This is ridiculous. You are acting like a child, Cersei.”__

__The anger was plain as day on her face and he remembered seeing it when she was a girl complaining about her tutors. He often wondered how such a beautiful little girl, with cheeks as rosy as her mother’s, could have grown to be so gaunt and mean-spirited. Once people noticed the blackness inside of her they saw how it rotted her features. She became sharp and angular, frown lines instead of laugh lines. Instead of endearing crow’s feet along her eyes she had a deep crease between her brows. And it embarrassed her father. Had her mother still been alive, he was sure it would embarrass her as well._ _

__“Had your son been where he was supposed to be, when he was supposed to be, he would have known that Ms. Stark just saved this company a mistake of possibly losing millions of gold pieces.” His voice was a low warning as he came around his desk to his daughter. “Your foolish and selfish eyes see insubordination and stubbornness. When, in actuality, it is loyalty…true loyalty that does not need years of tending, feeding, or growing. It is a quality that not many people have and you have just asked me to discipline her for showing it.”_ _

__Her eyes shined angrily. “You are not suspicious? You, the Great Lion of Casterly Rail, do not doubt this supposed loyalty of someone so new to your circle? You think that, fresh out the gate, she is willing to do whatever it is you say?” Her words were biting, the last defense of an embarrassed woman._ _

__“Loyalty can be faked, father, and she is no one. She is a stranger. I never thought it would be you to be fooled by a pretty face and polite submission.”_ _

__“Watch your tongue.”_ _

__Cersei shook her head. “You never trust your business partners. I know you always have backup plans because you expect them to double cross you…because that’s what you would do to them the second you could. And yet you think that the daughter of a new-money oilman is the new best investment on your payroll.”_ _

__Jaw clenched, Tywin’s chin dipped a fraction of an inch, the only way she could tell that her words were upsetting him._ _

__“How do you think Bolton would respond if you urged that I be his new secretary, touching his books and taking his numbers knowing full well that you have a major buyout of all of his steel? Roose would not let me anywhere near his business. Businesses mix on paper, father, in contracts. Not in person.”_ _

__She paused, watching her father’s arm move with the rise and fall of his chest. “Perhaps it is because you are getting older, you do not see that this is a bad plan.”_ _

__“So, which would have been the better plan?” Tywin said softly, the edge not leaving his voice. “Employing a stranger or marrying her off to your son?”_ _

__Cersei blinked and all the words she had thought were so clever and well delivered fell flat around them._ _

__“I’m no fool. She caught your eye just as she did mine,” Tywin continued. “You saw her intelligence and manners and started scheming to have her settle down with Joffrey and create a nice wife to keep up appearances for the family. And, no matter how much you are blinded by your shining boy, you know that would have been a waste.”_ _

__Tywin was glaring at his daughter now, angered by her assumptions and her accusations. “So, don’t you dare come in here and accuse me of being swayed by a pretty face. This is not the first time the quip has left you and you are speaking out of turn. I will not tolerate it any longer.”_ _

__He twisted his neck angrily, the knot feeling like a boulder on his spine. This matter was going to be put to bed, right now. And he would not be continuing with his daughter’s hands pushing at the lines and longer._ _

__“Your son has upset me. I was a good sport for you, I was willing to give him a chance and he wasted it. Waltzed right in here, late, as if that was his Gods given right. And now here you are, fighting his battles for him and attacking a perfectly good employee right after she saved this company from a monumental loss. So now I am upset with you as well, Cersei.”_ _

__He walked away from her, towards his crystal decanter and glass. He poured brandy, neat, ignoring the ice bucket. When Tywin turned to Cersei, he was sipping until he felt it burn his throat, mixing with the bile of his own anger._ _

__“There are going to be changes. This mess that Ms. Stark has spotted will take days to sort out, possibly weeks, and I do not have the time, nor the patience, to continue putting up with these childish games. You have no say over who I hire and Joffrey is not entitled to information regarding Casterly Steel. You can go to town, spend my money, vacation in my lake homes, and gallivant around in my carriages, but you have no right to come in here and criticize me in my own office!”_ _

__He pointed to the door. “Now get out. I am sick of you and your son assuming that blood is the most powerful loyalty there is. If I lost everything tomorrow and we were piss poor in the streets, how loyal would you be to your father then?”_ _

__Cersei swallowed back the burning desire to argue, but in his silence she knew he was right. It had been her most successful hat trick, pulling on the chords and strings with her slender fingers while she spouted off the importance of family. It was a crock, and she knew it just as well as he. She was going to have to come up with something else, but the anger she felt was slipping its way down her throat and into her stomach like muddy sludge._ _

__“Goodbye, father,” she managed, turning on her heel and leaving. With each step the anger festered and grew, infecting her until all she felt was hatred and the door handle burned hot in her palm. Tywin watched her go, finishing his drink in one long gulp. She slammed the door, unable to do nothing in the wake of her fury._ _

__Sansa was sitting at her desk, eyes trained on the ink blotter, knowing better than to look at the enraged Cersei as she stomped past the desk, but she felt the woman step closer and she heard the threat slide from her lips and burrow into her ears._ _

__“You are going to regret this.”_ _

__There was a carriage waiting outside and Cersei moved directly towards the door._ _

__When she was gone, Clegane slid off his stool and moved towards her desk, leaning against the door to Tywin’s office. “Well,” he said, crossing his arms and looking at Sansa Stark in surprised approval, “that’s one way to make friends.”_ _

__The beating of Sansa’s own heart and the pit in her stomach made it hard to hear his words and she couldn’t help but feel as if she had just made a very dire mistake._ _


	9. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Told you it'd be pretty soon! I was actually working on these last two chapters as one long one but it became much too long so I split them. Thanks everyone!   
> -J

The next morning Sansa had received a response from the office of Stannis Baratheon. It seemed as if Petyr Baelish had reached out and expressed the importance of a meeting and Stannis had requested more information before he coordinated travel. Sansa clipped it to her note taking pad and waited to bring it up to Mr. Lannister and get him on the schedule. She was early, waiting outside of his office with eyes trained on the stairs to see when he would come down. Unbeknownst to her, her boss was upstairs, fully dressed and pressed and clean, seated on the side of his bed, head bowed.

Tywin Lannister had suffered through a restless night. As he lay in the dark and waited for sleep to take him as it usually did without delay, he found that he was waiting longer and longer than usual without even feeling the slightest bit relaxed. His silk sheets felt like sandpaper and the muscles of his arm were burning with the desire to be free and move, nearly unbearable. Since becoming a widow, the man always slept on the right side of the bed, on his back, with his hands on his chest. His bed was expansive, as well as expensive, yet he never indulged in sleeping in the center. Sometimes he would roll over in the night and reach, his large palm resting on the empty mattress while his head dreamed of someone who wasn’t there. Secretly, Tywin had always craved sleep because that was when his world was finally quiet. No children reaching their hands in his pockets, swinging his name around like a mace and no competition seeking out the slightest weakness. 

But whenever he had edged close to sleep that night his brain would kick into high gear, creating the most lifelike and confusing hallucinations he had ever experienced, even worse than those he had suffered when he had been fighting off the fever as a young man. 

Countless people had barged into his room when he dreamed. Cersei, her face twisted in anger and pointing a finger at him as Jaime and Tyrion looked on. She was a sight, lips bared over her teeth and tears welling her eyes, kohl leaking from her lids. A piece of paper was clutched in her hand, his will, and she was screaming at their lack of funds. He started awake, looking about. He was alone. 

The next time he fell asleep he dreamt that Clegane was holding Petyr Baelish up against a wall, the man’s thick fist clenched around Baelish’s throat while forged bonds were littered around them. Tywin was seated on the couch, watching intently as the smaller man’s wide eyes darted about in his panic. Again, Tywin woke to find an empty room. 

The third visitor he couldn’t see. Or, rather, he wouldn’t see. Tywin was lying in his bed, just as usual, flat on his back with his hands on his chest, splayed. His arm did not ache with complaints of the injured ligaments. He sensed someone standing at the foot of his bed and he was acutely aware of who it was and of her nakedness. Tywin could see the glow of her skin in his peripheral. 

“ _Where are your clothes _” Tywin asked, his eyes trained on the ceiling.__

__“ _They have been stolen _” came the polite reply.___ _

___He would not look down his bed, he refused to. “ _By whom? _”___ _ _

___“ _I was told a traitor must suffer in nakedness _”___ _ _

___“ _Cover yourself or get out _”___ _ _

___There was a pause before he felt the blanket start to slowly and deliberately move across him, pulled by the bottom. It slid away and he felt the cool night air chill his own exposed skin. The Old Lion moved his arms down to cover himself and felt the crinkle of paper beneath him. The bed had morphed into a pile of wills, contracts, and bonds, some real and some faked. He sat up, felt the edges cut at his skin._ _ _

___Sansa Stark was standing at the foot of his bed, wrapped in papers as well, the blanket morphing into documents stamped with his lion. She was covered by his business and his wealth, wearing the stamps and the watermarks like the finest of jewelry. She was wrapped in everything Tywin Lannister was worth, the proof of his empire, the red of her hair matching the red ink boarders of the stocks. His eyes were trained on hers in the dark, flashing over her body before darting away, refusing to look at the way the paper was plastered to her form._ _ _

___When he woke, his skin was damp beneath his pajamas and the darkness through his windows was weakening. Unease filled him as he looked out the window, guilt in his head and his heart thudded against his chest. However, he was embarrassed to find that other parts of his anatomy weren’t as uneasy with the dream as his brain had been. Tywin Lannister was aroused even though he had imagined none of Stark’s nakedness and there had been nothing sexual about the dream._ _ _

___But, being a man, he had learned from years of practice that the body usually had a mind of its own, acting in defiance of his own brain. He lay back in the bed, wide awake and fearful of falling back asleep. He thought of his lion and crown stamped on the paper wrapped around her breasts, covered like plaster. Not blatantly sexual…but she was like a present, wrapped up in contracts and the wealth, his lion everywhere on her skin. The image made him stir and he thought of his daughter’s suspicious quips._ _ _

___With his injured hand there was no way for Tywin to take care of himself and he shifted uncomfortably in bed. Had he been a younger man he would have been in some pain, but with older age he had found that self- control came easier. Dreams meant nothing. The stress of the previous day had simply manifested itself into imagery and he had had plenty of regrettable and embarrassing dreams in the past, nothing to lose sleep over. However, he couldn’t shake the feeling of Stark’s eyes on his skin when he himself had been exposed in his dream. It disarmed him and he found himself wanting the sun to rise sooner. Daylight brought order, rationality._ _ _

___So, hours later as he sat on the edge of his neatly made bed, he was mentally preparing himself to face his young secretary downstairs. It was silly, he told himself. She could not read minds. Yet he wondered just how her eyes would look today, in real life and not his imagination. How accurate of a memory did he have with so few interactions?_ _ _

___Once he had downed two cups of coffee and left the untouched bowl of fruit, Tywin Lannister decided to finally go downstairs._ _ _

___She was standing behind her desk waiting for him, her hair plaited in a French braid and tied with a ribbon. He stared at it from across the room, watched how the sun made it glow and he remembered how vibrant it had been in the darkness of his own head. Her bright blue eyes looked like glacier ice and he instantly had to sigh out his discomfort, trying to push the memory from his head. Yet it was stubborn, a drunk not wanting to leave the pub._ _ _

___As he neared her he was thinking desperately, his mind moving as quickly as he could manage. The guilt would disarm him, distract him and cloud his judgement. He was not weak, he was not sentimental. Tywin needed to lean in to the privacy of his own head, the thoughts he hid away. It could be his secret, something electric that charged him to be impressive and unyielding. A strong man._ _ _

____His _lion had been wrapped around _her _body._____ _ _

___Use it as fuel. Not as a shameful little secret._ _ _

___Pleased with his conclusion, Tywin’s head was up and proud. He had left the sling upstairs. He had cradled himself enough. He would still avoid use of his wrist and hand, but he was sick of the damned sling._ _ _

___“Good morning,” Sansa greeted, holding up her writing board. Clegane opened the door for him and he strode inside, his secretary following dutifully._ _ _

___She waited until he was seated behind his desk before she spoke. If she noticed he was not wearing the sling she made no mention of it._ _ _

___Once Tywin was settled, he gave her a nod. Sansa spoke._ _ _

___“Sir, I have received a telegram sent from Stannis Baratheon’s office. It seems that Mr. Baelish has contacted them and he is willing to meet with you. Mr. Baratheon is requesting what day of the week you would like.”_ _ _

___“That was fast,” Tywin mused, leaning back in his chair and tapping his finger._ _ _

___“I apologize for not scheduling him into your week without bothering you. However, Mr. Lannister, I assumed that this would be of much importance so I wanted to be sure to inform you.”_ _ _

___Tywin waved a hand, “No need to explain your actions, it wastes time.”_ _ _

___Sansa nodded._ _ _

___“Simply respond ‘as soon as possible,’” Tywin said, tapping his thumb. “Normally, with stakes this high, I would even travel there…but if, for any reason, he was the one who fucked me, I want him here.”_ _ _

___He did not know why he swore in front of her, normally he wouldn’t curse in a woman’s presence, but the thought of yesterday’s madness had lit a fire within him. She did not seemed bothered by the language._ _ _

___“Of course, sir.”_ _ _

___The rest of the day had gone by without issue. Most of the day was spent dictating and transcribing. Tywin had instructed Sansa to write out a letter of concern to be sent to the major investors and stock holders regarding the possibility of faked bonds that were possibly in circulation. It had taken nearly an hour and a half for him to dictate exactly what he wanted to be said, repeatedly having her read portions back just so he could cross them out or start over. She was a fluent reader with wonderful inflection, reading dutifully and clearly so he could hear and absorb his own words as if he were someone else reading the letter for the first time._ _ _

___Tywin did not want to be sending this letter and he was taking too much time pouring over every exact word and sentence. He did not want any of his investors to whisper to each other about this blunder, this monumental weakness. The worst possible outcome would be rumors, whispers around business dinners and conference tables. Words that the great Ol’ Lion was starting to crack and the wool had been pulled over his eyes. As he obsessed over the letter he found his anger growing. He wanted Baratheon here to explain just how exactly fake bonds from one of his plants had been sold back to Lannister’s clerks._ _ _

___When Sansa was able to read the entire letter back to him without any more changes or suggestions, he was pleased. He provided her a mailing list of the top investors and she was set to work typing and addressing copies in order to be sent. He knew that this would consume the rest of her afternoon and it was top priority so Tywin let her go, sent her back to her desk with a wave of the hand and a simple, “that’s all, Ms. Stark.”_ _ _

___The incessant tapping of the typist’s machine itched at Clegane’s ears like the ticking of a clock. He watched as her fingers darted about the keys before she would push the cylinder back over to start again. His foot would tap and he would pause when it was time to begin a new line and he found himself falling in the cadence of it. When the noon hour came and went he got up for a cigarette, standing in the doorway of the estate, kicking bits of gravel off the front step. It was a cloudy day, punctuating the week of blue skies with the possibility of a drizzle and the grass smelled particularly greener with the coming moisture._ _ _

___He watched with narrowed eyes as Joffrey and two other boys headed to the stable, laughing and tossing a ball back and forth, something that belonged out in the pitch, not in the stables. Sucking on the last of his cigarette and getting burnt bits of tobacco on his tongue, he decided it was none of his business. Unless he was informed it was his business, of course. Sandor flicked the cigarette butt and watched through the open double doors as stable staff tacked up three horses for the young men. Finished with his break, Clegane stepped back inside before he was missed._ _ _

___“Do you need food?” he grunted to Ms. Stark, noticing how she dipped her head to squint at the paper. Two finished copies sat at her desk and she was chipping away at the third. She blinked, looked up at him then at the desk clock._ _ _

___“It’s lunch time,” he continued. “Do you take a lunch.”_ _ _

___“Oh,” she said, eyeing up the lists of investors that still required letters. “No, I’m afraid I won’t be taking a lunch today.”_ _ _

___“You haven’t yesterday either. If you don’t take lunch I’ll stop asking.” Clegane grunted, moving to her desk. He loomed over her like a metal beam and she could smell the tobacco smoke on him. Today he was wearing wool trousers and a plain white shirt, suspenders and his usual cap. Sansa pushed herself away from the desk in surprise when he reached for her, her eyes wide._ _ _

___“Easy,” he grunted, pushing the call button. The metallic buzz resounded through the office. “I’m not gonna hurt you, I just want some food.”_ _ _

___“Oh,” Sansa said, a blush on her cheeks, “of course. I apologize.”_ _ _

___“Good reaction to have when someone reaches into your space,” Sandor mused, reaching into his pocket and fishing out a toothpick._ _ _

___“You could’ve just asked,” Sansa replied, pulling herself back towards her typing machine while Clegane stepped back from the desk, his eyes searching across the entryway for a staff member. The same dark haired courier that had taken her message the day before was hurrying towards them, his footsteps tapping against the tile._ _ _

___“Where’s the fun in that,” Sansa swore she heard Clegane murmur through his toothpick before the help came close enough. “Pod,” he grunted. “Can I get a sandwich? Anything cook’s willing to spare.”_ _ _

___Pod was the servant’s name. He nodded, he glanced at Sansa._ _ _

___“And a lemonade,” Clegane added gruffly before waving his hand, “that’s all. Get.”_ _ _

___The man nodded and hurried away._ _ _

___“Pod’s good,” Clegane offered, venturing back to his stool. “if you need anything call him.”_ _ _

___“You get food from the kitchen’s?” Sansa asked, looking at him._ _ _

___“Yeah. The help has a hierarchy. You and I are at the top. Don’t push it, but you can get food and drink if you need it.”_ _ _

___Sansa shrugged, fully intending to never ask for anything from the Lannister staff. The last thing she needed were the wrong eyes witnessing her bossing around the help and feasting on kitchen food during work hours. She had just finished her third copy before Pod returned with a little plate and a glass of lemonade. Clegane got up and took them from him, setting them down on her desk before he reached into his pocket and tossed a coin towards the servant._ _ _

___“Thanks.”_ _ _

___Pod retreated back into the guts of the estate and Clegane picked up his plate, moving back towards his stool. He left the lemonade, deliberately and obviously. She was thirsty, that much was true. She had almost gone the whole day without anything to drink and the pale yellow liquid looked appetizing. She finally took it and sipped past the ice, savoring the tartness. She had always loved lemons._ _ _

___“Thank you,” Sansa said without looking up from her machine. Clegane chewed silently, not offering any welcome._ _ _

___Sansa Stark continued to chip away at the letters and Sandor listened as the typing got slower and more deliberate over time. The woman would lean back, stretch her long neck and crack the knuckles of her fingers, shifting in her seat as she dutifully plugged on. Dusk was starting to fall by the time she finally finished. Sansa waved the last letter stock sheet, letting the ink dry before she stacked all of them up. Her fingers and neck ached and she was sick of sitting. The woman’s eyes had started to grow blurry as they stared at the little stamped letters, but she was fueled by pride. Not one mistake had been made, no corrector fluid necessary. She had completed in one full day what usually took a day and a half. True, she was there past hours, but Tywin had not left his office once and she knew he was still there. There had been no distractions, save for the long empty glass of lemonade._ _ _

___Rapping three times on the door, Sansa paused until she heard Tywin’s voice call, “Come in.”_ _ _

___She walked in to find him in dim oil lamp light as the sky weakened behind the glass windows. He was watching her in the gloom, eyebrows raised. “Ms. Stark, you are still here,” he observed._ _ _

___Sansa nodded, “Forgive the late intrusion, but given the nature of importance to our situation, I decided to finish these as soon as possible. Tomorrow will be addressing and mailing.”_ _ _

___Our situation, she had said. Tywin let it slip, noting how tired her eyes looked._ _ _

___“Of course, that will fine.”_ _ _

___“So,” she offered, stepping towards Tywin’s desk and holding out the pressed stack of letters. “These need a stamp or signature, whichever way you prefer to sign your correspondence. I don’t know what you prefer.”_ _ _

___He watched her carefully, watched the lines of her throat move with her swallow. Tywin saw the ink of his lion and crown pressed to her collarbone. “Initials,” he finally said, standing and reaching, taking the letters from across the desk. “I sign in initials.”_ _ _

___“I will be sure to remember. These are ready to be sent once they are signed.”_ _ _

___“They will be signed by tomorrow morning.”_ _ _

___“Very well, Mr. Lannister,” Sansa replied, her voice and eyes tired. “If it pleases you, I think I am finished for today and will ask Mr. Clegane to bring me home. Is there anything else?”_ _ _

___Tywin looked down at the letters and found it amusing how the woman’s paper full of dots, swirls, and lines could be transcribed into rows and rows of letters and words. “No,” he hummed, looking back up at her. Her eyes glowed dark blue in the low light. “Go on, go get some rest.”_ _ _

___She offered him a tired smile. “Thanks,” she let the informality slip, “if you find any issue with the letter, please let me know and I will be sure to fix them.”_ _ _

___Tywin nodded, waving his hand so she could turn and leave. He watched her braid sway between her shoulder blades and he thought of how his wife had plaited her hair when she went out to tend to their chickens back when they were as poor as the dirt they had tried to farm. It was well past supper time and he admired the woman’s work ethic. His office door shut with a click and he settled down to read her letter._ _ _

___She had done an exceptional job and he set to work looping the “T’s” and the “L’s” of his signature. He had been practicing with his left hand during the day and Tywin was slow and deliberate, managing to make the initials look similar to his normal handwriting, it just took twice as long. He had not expected her to finish today and he valued her sense of urgency. As he signed the forms, Tywin mused about her words. “Our situation,” she had said. The Old Lion wondered if that had been a slip of the tongue or a deliberate show that she was treating his crisis as her own now that she was under his employ._ _ _

___Sansa gathered up her shawl while Sandor stood up and grunted about readying the carriage. She sat at her desk, pressing a fingertip to the inkpad and watching how long it took for the little indention to swell back up and become smooth. Her mind had gone comfortably blank, that sort of numb unthinkingness people got after a particularly stressful or hearty day and soon Mr. Clegane was back in the doorway, giving her a short and sharp whistle to snap her to._ _ _

___She climbed in the carriage and watched as Sandor did the same, sitting down with a huff, the buggy sagging towards him with his weight. With a click of the tongue and the flick of the reigns, they were off._ _ _

___“Mind if I smoke?” Sandor asked, digging into his pocket anyway._ _ _

___“No,” Sansa said as they traveled down the darkening drive. Lamps had been lit along the way. “My brothers used to behind the storage shed back home. I never told.”_ _ _

___“You don’t have to tell,” Clegane muttered, blowing smoke into the darkness and waving the match until it was smothered. “Everyone knows I smoke.” The tip of the rolled cigarette glowed in the gloom._ _ _

___The two lurched along in silence and soon Sansa felt her eyelids grow heavy. Soon, her head had tipped back and the sway of the carriage had lulled her into a light doze and she leaned over to the side, ignoring the bumps and the lurches of the uneven road._ _ _

___A heavy elbow nudging her roused her from her rest. “Hey, wake up. We’re here.”_ _ _

___Sansa looked up at the home. A few lights were on, but the window at the very top was dark. Her room. She was not looking forward to climbing the attic steps in the dark._ _ _

___“Want me to wait until I see the light?” Clegane offered, sucking the last of his tobacco. He noticed her stare up at the small window. It was dark around them, now closer to night than dusk. And he knew how women could be sometimes. Things hid in the dark and years of being bashed over the head or drug into allies put women on edge as an instinct, bred into them._ _ _

___Sansa wanted to say yes, but she knew that she wasn’t a girl anymore. She was a woman, a working and independent one at that. Her landlord was an older and nosy woman and she knew the home was secure, as was her room._ _ _

___“No thank you,” she replied, reaching into her coin purse and taking out the iron keyring with two keys. One for her room and the front door. “I will be able to manage just fine. I will see you in the morning.” She climbed down from the carriage and Clegane responded with a grunt before he flicked the reigns and the carriage rolled away through the port._ _ _

___She let herself into the front door and noted how quiet the rest of the home was. She lit a lamb that sat on the entryway table next to a box of matches and made her way inside. She had missed supper time and she had no doubt that the other lodgers were content writing letters, reading, or perhaps even playing a quiet card game in their rooms. She dutifully climbed the stairs, trying to make the least bit of noise possible. Up three levels, the space getting stuffier with all the heat from the fireplaces and oil lamps fighting the chill at night and rising up towards her little room. She came to the doorway of the attic steps. In the dim light of the hall, she reached towards the knob and lock with the key._ _ _

___Suddenly, ice shot through her and she felt wide awake when she noticed that her door was loose in the jamb, at least a centimeter from being fully shut. Giving the door a little push, she watched with dread as it swung open, unlocked._ _ _

___Sansa knew it had been shut when she left that morning. It was her habit to pull it closed behind her and give it a little push just to be sure._ _ _

___Clenching the two keys in her fist like little spikes, Sansa climbed up the steps into the dark. Maybe it had just been the landlord checking the flue and she had forgotten to lock the door. Sansa paused once on the steps, listening for any rustling or movement, but she heard none. The glow of the lantern gave little comfort as she finally came up her steps._ _ _

___Sansa’s room had been tossed. Books had been strewn about and ripped up. Her wardrobe had been emptied, her blouses stained with what appeared to be wine and mud. Oil had been dumped on her skirts. The room stunk. Disgust wrinkled at her nose when she looked at her bed and saw a pile of manure piled up on her mattress, straw sticking from the muck._ _ _

___She took a few cautious steps in, pinching her nose against the barnyard stink. There was a pile of shredded paper and with a sickened heart she noticed that it was letters she had brought with her from her family. Sansa had always been sentimental and she kept every letter she had ever received. Now they were confetti, decorating the mess of a room in front of her. A lump formed in her throat when she noticed that the wardrobe and dresser drawers were all pulled out and ransacked._ _ _

___Her money._ _ _

___Setting the lamp on the top of the dresser, Sansa desperately dug through the mess. From beneath her bed she spotted the corner of the brown envelope. She pulled at it, holding her breath from how close to the manure she was. It came away from under her bed empty. Nothing inside. Her money was gone, stolen while the rest of her belongings had been ruined. Sansa had been targeted, a young woman that was now truly alone. The thought of someone still being here, in the home, churned her stomach._ _ _

___She wretched and quickly dashed down the steps, her mind blank with horror and panic. She made it outside and saw that the carriage had already pulled away. She looked back at the house, at the mess that was upstairs. Despair filled her, she had no money to pay for the damages upstairs. Sansa did not know if her landlord actually stayed at the house and she wasn’t about to start knocking on random doors. What if the people who had decided to wreck her room were still in the house? What was she going to do? Where was town? Was there a hotel?_ _ _

___Maybe she could find Mr. Clegane if she could make it back to Casterly and he could give her a ride to somewhere with rooms. She held onto the oil lamp, her only beacon in the night, and clutched her shawl closer to her. Determined to not fear the dark, she set off towards the estate._ _ _

___It was well after dark before Tywin finally left his office. He set the pile of signed letters on Sansa Stark’s desk and noticed how neat and orderly it was. She had several Cross pens that were aligned like straight little soldiers. Her papers were in order, her note taking pad was organized with a new and fresh sheet. Tywin stood and looked down at the leather and wood chair, noticed the indentation in the seat._ _ _

___He allowed himself to indulge in the memory of his dream as he stood alone in his home. He was glad that he hadn’t bought into the guilt or embarrassment of the hallucination, but instead turned it into a fun little fantasy. Tywin wondered to himself just how many gold pieces in bonds would it take to cover Sansa Stark?_ _ _

___A soft and tentative knock at the door snapped him out of his own head and he clenched his jaw, wondering to himself just why he had decided to delve into his memory out in the open of the entryway and not in the privacy of his own room._ _ _

___Tywin stared at the door. With his wealth came dangers and he had grown accustomed to not answering his own door when he could not see who was knocking. He knew that Clegane had men lurking around the grounds at night and he wondered just who had been able to slip beneath their radar._ _ _

___The knocking came again, impossibly quiet yet hurried against the thick wooden door. With one finger, Tywin opened the wide and shallow drawer of Sansa Stark’s desk and discovered a sharp, metal letter opener. It looked close enough to a dagger and Tywin assumed he would be able to wield it just as well if needed. He approached the door._ _ _

___Surprise filled him when he saw a hunched and disheveled looking Sansa on the front stoop of the carriage port. She looked as equally surprised to see him, Tywin Lannister, her employer. Her eyes were wide and she quickly wiped at them. She had been crying._ _ _

___“Mr. Lannister,” she hiccupped, “I’m sorry, I-”_ _ _

___“Where is Clegane,” he couldn’t help but bark. “did he not bring you home?” His mind was working quickly, going over all of the potentially terrible things that could happen to a young woman like Sansa Stark in the dark. Clegane had been the last one to see her, supposedly bringing her home. Dread filled Tywin Lannister as he thought of the possibility of his big hired man doing something stupid._ _ _

___“I was hoping he would be the one answering the door,” Sansa said, staring at the ground. “I need a ride into town, I need a new place to stay.”_ _ _

___“Come in,” Tywin said, relief filling him, if only for a moment. His man was still good, reliable._ _ _

___“Surely, Mr. Lannister, I do apologize. This is not appropriate and I should not be bothering you. It was foolish for me to come here.”_ _ _

___Tywin held up a hand, “Don’t be a fool, Ms. Stark. Come inside.”_ _ _

___She quietly did so, shuffling into Casterly Rock. In three long strides, Tywin was at her desk, pressing the buzzer and calling for staff. Someone new arrived, someone that Sansa didn’t recognized and she wondered if there was a day shift and a night shift._ _ _

___“Send for Sandor Clegane, find him. He might be in the stables,” Tywin ordered, his voice even, “And set up a room on the west hall for Ms. Stark.”_ _ _

___Sansa’s mouth filled with cotton. “Oh, no, Mr. Lannister. I can’t bother you for a room. That is far too much trouble. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”_ _ _

___“Enough, Ms. Stark,” Tywin barked, loud enough to snap her out of her fluster. “That’s enough,” he added, a little softer. “Now, tell me what happened. Is the home you are boarding at demanding more money? Is there a leak?”_ _ _

___Sansa’s eyebrows furrowed and had she not been so shook up she would’ve laughed. It was almost comical what Tywin Lannister though flustered women._ _ _

___“No,” Sansa said, her eyes darting about. “My room…it’s been ransacked. I’ve been robbed.”_ _ _

___Tywin’s face darkened suddenly and he took a step closer. “You’ve brought no work home with you, I trust?” he asked urgently, making sure she met his eyes. “No documents?”_ _ _

___She shook her head. “No, sir. I’ve brought nothing home. They damaged all of my clothes, ripped my letters. There was a pile of….” She blushed, suddenly unable to say the words as Tywin watched her closely, his green eyes digging into her with intent. “…manure…on my mattress.”_ _ _

___His eyebrows furrowed and his lip curled around his teeth in a slight snarl, “What?”_ _ _

___The front door opened rather quickly and Sandor was standing, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. He had run there from the stable. “What’s going on.”_ _ _

___Tywin straightened up, motioning to Sansa. “Ms. Stark has been robbed. Her room was ransacked. Did you not walk her up?”_ _ _

___Sandor shook his head. “No. Wouldn’t be appropriate. I watched her go inside.”_ _ _

___Sansa interjected, “He asked if I wanted him to stay until I got upstairs, I told him no, Mr. Lannister.”_ _ _

___“There’s manure on her mattress,” Tywin barked._ _ _

___“What?”_ _ _

___Sansa didn’t want to say it again. “I was hoping you could bring me into town so that I may get a room, Mr. Clegane.”_ _ _

___Tywin turned to her. “Do you have money?”_ _ _

___She wilted. “No. They found the money my family gave me. It’s all gone.”_ _ _

___Tywin heaved a sigh and she glance up at him. The tall man wasn’t staring at anything in particular but she could see the bulge of his clenched jaw. His eyes were mean and glinting. “Then you have no way of paying for a hotel room. You will be staying here in the meantime. It will be safer this way. They could’ve been searching for work documents. I want to know who is attacking my staff. And why.”_ _ _

___Sandor nodded, coming towards Sansa he held out a large palm. “The keys, Ms. Stark. I am going to go take a look. See what I can find.”_ _ _

___Luckily, she had run off with them still clutched in her grip. She dropped them into Mr. Clegane’s hand. Tywin pressed the buzzer again and looked at her, meeting her icy blue eyes with his green. They were reddened around the lids and he knew she had been trying to hide tears. He thought of her walking all that way in the dark knowing she had just become a target and the anger shot through him like a crossbow bolt. “I will have the staff send you to your room.” His words were stiff in anger. “Request anything you need from them, whether its linens or a change of clothes. Please rest and I will see you in the morning, Ms. Stark.”_ _ _

___Sansa nodded, deciding not to resist any more. She did not want to be rude. A maid came and took her away, up the stairs and out of sight. Twin watched her go and then turned to Clegane._ _ _

___“Find out what the fuck is going on,” Lannister growled. “I want to know why she was targeted and who did it. And for their sake I hope it was just a random attack. Because after yesterday I am not prepared to tolerate one more attack on my business or my employees.”_ _ _

___“Yes, sir,” Clegane grunted before he left the house. He readied a solo horse and galloped down the drive. Tywin stood in the now quiet entryway, alone once again. Tywin couldn’t wrap his head around it as he decided to climb the stairs and retreat back to his own chambers. Since Sansa Stark’s arrival last weekend the world seemed to be pushing at his boundaries. Dreams were filling his head, his daughter was lashing out like a jealous child, there were forgeries in his stocks, and now people were attacking Ms. Stark directly. It had been two days._ _ _

___There was something polarizing about the young woman, Tywin mused as he splashed water on his face, something different and new. After the poor girl’s room was ransacked she did not run to the police precinct, nor did she scream and wail in the night until a passerby or good Samaritan helped her. No. She had come back here. Why? Stark claimed she was searching for Clegane to bring her to town, but she had no money for a room._ _ _

___Perhaps Stark realized true power when she was faced with it and she assumed that Tywin Lannister had the means to help her. Yet she hadn’t asked for it. She didn’t clutch to his trousers and beg for help or revenge or money with tears in her eyes. She seemed just as surprised as he was when she found herself back at Casterly._ _ _

___Something pulled her back._ _ _

___He splashed water on his face again and pretended that it was indeed the loyalty he had used against Cersei like a weapon. In this changing world of new money and shifty business he was pleased to see that she was helping him and turning to him when she needed help as well, but not demanding it. Like how the lionesses hunted for the lion, but the lion protected the pride from the jackals._ _ _

___And Tywin was quite interested to see which jackal was digging through Sansa Starks belongings and what exactly they were looking for._ _ _


	10. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the inconsistency of my chapters, but when the urge hits I'm one to ride that wave as long as I can! I must say that the responses to this story are so awesome! I really appreciate everyone's input and it's amazing to hear that there are other history buffs out there that can draw parallels to ASOIAF.   
> There are times that I will have to do some research, as I am no where near an expert, so thank you all for your forgiveness of any errors!  
> Thank you as always - J

The poor girl’s room stunk. And it truly was a mess.

At first, as he took his first few steps inside, pistol drawn, Clegane tried to avoid stepping on her clothes and papers. But with the level of disarray he soon found it to be impossible. A good intention, but not a realistic one. Ms. Stark’s blouses and petticoats were beneath his boots and he stared at the bed, the manure and the straw. An insult, as blatant as a gob of spit on her face. He crunched his toothpick with his teeth and tucked the pistol back into the holster nestled beneath his armpit. 

Two other men were banging on doors downstairs while Sandor picked through Sansa Stark’s room. He listened as Swyft and Payne pounded on the wood, rousing the rest of the house before charging into rooms and closets, muffled protests rising up to his ears though the floorboards. A burlap sack was tucked in his belt and his eyes were scanning for anything that could be salvaged for the poor girl. Sandor picked his way cautiously around the room, the smell of lamp oil was sickly mixed with the barnyard stink and he did not need a fire on his hands. The tight scarred skin of his face itched. 

Everything was covered, soaked. He thought of gathering up some clothes, but he did not even think the laundry maids could salvage the wool and cotton. He moved to the desk, one particularly loud man protesting downstairs as he did so. There was a small cigar box, the lid open. An Old Gods bible sat inside, next to a few pencils. It had been untouched. His brow furrowed and he looked behind him in the poor light. Her other books had not been spared. Setting the lamp down, Clegane took the bible out of the box and thumbed through the pages. The girl had faith, or at least pretended to. The spine was worn and it fell open easily. Several pages were dog-eared. A slip of paper fell from the bible. He stooped to pick it up. 

One word was scrawled on the page, big blocky writing in black ink. 

“QUIT.” 

Clegane closed the bible in his big hand and folded the paper. He tucked it in his pocket and quickly left the room, thudding down the stairs before he was faced with an angry crowd out in the yard. He stood on the porch, watching as they all complained with each other. Payne and Swyft had left the home and turned their attention to the back shed, their lamps glowing through the dirty windows. The three horses they had ridden were left to graze in the yard, all three devoid of saddles. Clegane, Swyft, and Payne were accustomed to moving as quickly as possible, which meant ignoring proper tack at times.

“What is the meaning of this?” an old and gnarled woman asked, spectacles teetering on her nose. Had she been standing with him on the porch, the top of her head didn’t even meet Clegane’s chest, yet that did not faze her. She was glaring up at him, very upset with being roused from her bed. 

“Where’s the landlord?” Sandor asked, looking over everyone as he pushed the bible in his back pocket. 

“I am, my husband died and now I take care of the home,” the bossy old woman replied. Her beady little eyes darted to his gun in the gloom. 

“Who went into the attic room today? The room that Ms. Stark is renting?” 

Everyone was quiet. Clegane’s tone had frightened them all. 

“Nothing, sir,” called Payne from the shed, the two of them leaving and coming back to the house. 

Clegane nodded to them and they both approached the porch, setting down their lamps before going to the horses. 

“We will leave once we are told who was allowed into the upper room,” Clegane grunted, the note burning in his pocket. He slowly paced back and forth on the porch, his thick-soled boots thudding with his weight. 

“Who even are you?” someone in the back piped. 

Chewing his toothpick, Sandor answered, “Someone you don’t want to lie to.” 

“There were two boys here, errand boys sent by Mr. Lannister up the road,” the old woman finally said. “I didn’t recognize them, but they had a signed memo which stated they were here to fetch some items from the upper room.” 

“Two boys?” Clegane asked, eyes staring in disbelief at the naiveté of the woman. Usually old broads were trickier than this. “ Just two of them? And you just let them in? Didn’t hear any sort of commotion up there?” 

Becoming defensive, she argued, “They said they were sent to pack. Ms. Stark would no longer be staying here. She was moving.” 

Sandor flicked his tongue around his toothpick and it wiggled in his mouth. “Well, aren’t you just as sharp as a steel trap, eh?” 

She glowered. “I saw the initials on the memo. I had no reason to question. I house Lannister employees all the time, maids, cooks, clerks.” 

“Not anymore you won’t,” Clegane said. He tossed his head back to the house. “Get me the paper. The sooner you do that then the sooner we will be on our way.” 

“I don’t want any trouble with Mr. Lannister.” 

“Well granny,” Clegane rumbled, stepping down from the porch and looming over her. “If you go and get that paper then I will be sure not to make any trouble.” 

It clicked in her head, he was sent from the estate and she quickly nodded, pushing past him and hurrying inside. He walked to his horse and easily swung himself onto the beast’s back, feeling the lump of the Old Gods bible in his back pocket. He reached behind him and pulled it out, truthfully worrying more about creasing it than the discomfort the horse probably felt. 

Clucking his tongue he ushered the animal towards the house. “Go on inside.” 

Like a covey of chickens, everyone did as told, hurrying back to their beds. 

He waited with Payne and Swyft, the horses shifting their weight this way and that. When the landlady came back outside she shuffled up to Clegane, who, now that he was seated on a horse, seemed impossibly large. She held out the typed memo, the ugliest and crudest “TL” scribbled beneath it. Pathetic. 

“Get new spectacles,” Clegane grunted, folding the paper and tucking it into his pocket with the other note. He pulled at the reigns, ready to leave, but he paused. Sandor looked back down at her and she tried not to stare at the man’s face. “There will be no damages charge, is that understood?” 

“Damages?” 

“I can tell you haven’t been upstairs. You’re a gullible woman. Maybe it’s time to retire,” Clegane barked, “the ‘errand boys’ you let inside made quite a mess and Ms. Stark will not be liable.” 

Her eyes were wide with dreaded understanding and she nodded. 

Yanking on the reigns the three of them kicked up gravel and headed back up the road to Casterly Rock. Swyft and Payne went about checking the grounds, as was their usual duty when they worked nights. Clegane went inside once the stable boy took the horses from them.

Without waiting for an escort, Sandor Clegane made his way to Tywin’s room, as he had many times in the past whenever he was sent out on a job or an errand. Tywin liked having reports as soon as he arrived back, no matter what the time. Clegane rapped twice on the Old Lion’s door before he came inside, as was the routine. Tywin was still awake, sitting on his davenport and fully dressed. A snifter was in his hand, the brandy from earlier now graduating to cognac. 

“Well?” he asked with an expectant quirk of the eyebrow. 

Clegane fished out the two notes and handed them to his employer. Tywin Lannister set down his snifter on the table and held them next to each other. “What the hell is this?” he asked, holding out the memo. 

“Landlady stated that two errand boys she did not recognize presented formal notice that Ms. Stark was moving and that they were there on Lannister orders to pack for her.” 

“This isn’t my signature.” 

“It’s a fucked forgery, that’s for certain.” 

Clegane watched as the muscles in Tywin’s jaws bunched and relaxed as he thought. He reached for his crystal, taking another sip. He didn’t offer any to Clegane, which was fine by him. He was a beer man anyways. 

Tywin eyed the empty burlap that hung slackly at Sandor’s hip. “Was there nothing salvageable?” 

Sandor reached into his back pocket and presented the bible, worn and leather. Tywin’s long fingers curled around it gently and he thumbed through the pages. “She believes in the Old Gods,” he mused, his fingertips moving over the folded corners of the pages. 

“That was the only thing there worth saving. The other note was between the pages.” 

“They placed it in her bible?” 

“Yes.” 

Manure on the bed and a threat in her prayers. 

“Sir, at around lunch time today I saw Joffrey and two others tack up three horses.” 

Tywin’s head shot up and he stared at Clegane, unblinking. He continued. 

“I don’t know where they were going or what they were doing, but it was around the lunch hour.” 

“You didn’t think to check where he went?” 

Clegane shrugged. “The boy lives here. I can’t go around questioning everything he does. Not unless that’s something you want.” 

Closing Sansa’s bible, Tywin knew he was right. It wouldn’t have been appropriate and he always respected Clegane’s rationality. 

Everything about this brash little plan reeked of Joffrey. The true question was if he had come up with it on his own or if he was urged by his mother. 

His children lied. Often and easily. If asked out of the blue of their involvement would surely result in false stories or alibies. Surely those involved had already begun to plan faked surprise and denials. 

Tywin drug his thumb gently over the pages of the bible, lost in thought. 

“Is there anything else, sir?” Clegane asked. 

“Yes,” Tywin mused, pursing his lips, not looking at his hired man as he schemed. “Are you rested?” 

“Aye.” 

“You can go the night?” 

Clegane shrugged. “As long as I’m relieved in the morning for a nap, I’ll be able to reset.” 

Tywin nodded, still unblinking. “I want you to set up at the mouth of the west hall, third floor, she’s staying there. There should be vacant rooms around her. Don’t let anybody in and I want you to walk her down in the morning.” 

“Understood.” 

“I was not expecting all of her belongings to be lost. I will be sending in clothes for her in the morning, if it’s not a maid you recognize, don’t let her pass.” 

Clegane nodded and turned to leave. Tywin called one last request. “Clegane, make no mention of any of this to anyone. I wish to see how they react if it appears as if nothing has happened. Let them play their hand.” 

His hired man left and Tywin looked back down at the woman’s bible. How long had she had it, he wondered? Since a girl? Or perhaps it was her father’s. Religion had been losing popularity with the younger generation and he found this book endearing, even if it was filled with the Gods he didn’t believe in. At least she was driven by something sacred, unlike his grandson who was wrapped up in his own supposed greatness. 

The minutes ticked by as Tywin sipped his cognac and tried to sort out how quickly things had gotten out of control. The hiring of one secretary had managed to push his daughter over the edge. Tyrion had often made quips about his sister and the possible sickness that lurked in her brain, but Tywin had never expected her to act so brashly. And now she was threatening an investment. 

There were cracks in his business and Sansa Stark had the potential to mend. He had been searching for a new pair of eyes that could look upon his empire with an impartial gaze. Tywin was brilliant, ruthless at times, but successful. However, even the most cunning of men fell into habits. If he had missed the stocks, what else was skulking beneath the surface? Men took care of his books for too long and now he felt paranoid of their hands crunching his numbers. 

Sansa Stark will have the ball in her court. Surely she would wish to return home after her more than inhospitable few days and that frustrated Tywin. And how would her father react? His beautiful daughter in the clutches of the new business partner so far away from home. Would Stark be willing to continue with this deal after the maltreatment of Sansa? Or would he rip it up and find a new train to load? 

The brashness of Joffrey and Cersei had the potential to uproot more than just a secretary and the knowledge and fear of that possibility made the cognac taste as sour as vinegar on his thin lips. 

Tywin Lannister dreamt of his trains drowning in oil, the crude black liquid burying his rails. 

The next morning, he found her standing at her desk in an ivory blouse and deep burgundy skirt. Sansa Stark’s eyes were tired, undoubtedly unable to rest with the chaos of the previous night. He blinked at her and realized that he had foolishly forgotten her bible upstairs. No matter, he would give it to her soon enough. 

“Sir, I’ve received a telegram from Petyr Baelish this morning,” Ms. Stark said, dutiful. She made no mention of her crisis. 

Tywin paused at her desk, glancing over at the stool. One of Clegane’s associates was filling his spot while he rested. Tywin cleared his throat but the stranger was unused to his habits. Sansa came around her desk, passing very close to him and he smelled soap in her hair. She opened the door, standing inside and waiting for the Lion to stride into his office. 

“Shut the door,” Tywin instructed. She did as told. He held out a hand, motioning towards the chairs that sat across his desk. “Sit, please.” 

Sansa settled down, looking up at him, ankles crossed and slender hands in her lap. Even with tired eyes her posture was straight and correct. 

“I have no doubt that last night unsettled you, Ms. Stark,” Tywin began, not sitting behind his desk, but instead settling down next to her. He felt as if she deserved a genuine apology and he was not about to place the expansive wood desk between them and make things more comfortable for himself. He crossed his long legs, the pant leg of his trouser creeping up and showing black socks. “I’m going to be frank with you. I think that last night you were made a target because of your employment.” 

Sansa’s eyes darkened. “But sir, I never brought any paperwork home with me. I’ve left it here.” 

“That’s not what I mean,” Tywin explained, “I believe that it was a personal strike and I am very ashamed to admit that I think it was either my grandson or my daughter who carried it out.” 

She was very quiet and she glanced away at him. 

“Ms. Stark, if you would like to no longer continue your employment as my secretary I will be more than understanding…albeit disappointed.” 

Disappointed. The word hung between them like a bannister, unable to be ignored. 

“May I be honest, Mr. Lannister?” Sansa finally requested after a moment of thoughtful silence. 

“Of course.” 

“I came to work, not to become entangled with the personalities of your family.” 

Tywin could’ve cringed at her words. She was rational, professional and here she was, trying to crunch numbers in a circus. 

“I would like to continue to work for you, Mr. Lannister, but I must be truthful. I am frightened. I truly have nothing with me any longer and all I had done was work. And if my father hears about any of this I fear I will be sent back home without much of a choice. And I’ve already worked so hard to convince him that I am able to work away from home.” 

Her words sounded angry and rightfully so. Last night the poor woman had manure piled onto her bed for Gods’ sake. Tywin looked at her, adjusting in his chair and extending his hand over the back so that he was facing her direction. For the first time since her employment she did not feel intimidated by him and she allowed herself to speak openly. She thought of all of her clothes and letters, ruined, and she felt a jolt of electricity shoot through her. Sansa was unused to speaking in anger, usually preferring to leave the conflict until she had time to become composed. But now she had no choice. This was what she wanted to do and she could not pass up the opportunity to be working so closely with the most powerful man in the country. 

So Sansa was going to fight for her position. And for her protection. She had practiced for most of the night in the mirror. 

However, when faced with the intensity of Tywin Lannister’s eyes boring into hers she paused, swallowing. 

“I-” Sansa began, blinking. He had met her eyes dozens of times in the last few days, even over her first weekend stay, but alone in the room with just the two of them seemed to intensify them into bright green stones. They were sitting close to one another and she could feel them watching every twitch and absorbing every one of her details. 

“I would like compensation for the money that was stolen. And for my damaged possessions. And I would like free lodging.” 

Tywin dipped his head and the morning light made his blonde hair almost turn white, “Of course.” 

Sansa continued. “I would like to stay here so I do not have to travel to work.” This part of her speech had been practiced before learning that it was actually Joffrey or Cersei that had caused the burglary. In a way it was her choosing to sleep in the snake pit, but being so far away from home had made her crave something familiar and the closer she was to work the better. So why not just live just upstairs? It was an added benefit that she was trading the dusty attic room for one of luxury. “And I would like some sort of protection. Guaranteed.” 

“Was Mr. Clegane at the end of the hall this morning?” 

“Yes.” 

Nodding, Tywin said, “Good.” 

“But, sir, I meant during the day. I know Mr. Clegane is across the room, but I don’t like that anyone could come up to my desk. I understand I am supposed to meet clients and if there is a scheduled meeting I would be more than happy to meet them outside, however I don’t like sitting there during the day, just waiting.” 

Joffrey had free range of the estate, as did Cersei, and Ms. Stark was right. After a blatant attack it would be easy for them to come and harass her while Tywin sat in his office. Lannister drummed his fingers on the back of the chair. 

“What do you suggest, Ms. Stark?” he hummed, cocking his head and regarding her. Curiosity nibbled at him and he liked seeing this side of the young woman. So much of her interactions had been dripping in social cues and etiquette that it was hard to tell who she really was. And, while that was valuable, one could consider it a mask. This morning her eyes sparked a little brighter and her cheeks were slightly flushed, the mask was gone and the woman was closer to Sansa than Ms. Stark. And she was allowing Tywin to bear witness to it. She was speaking to him normally, not as her employer. But not as her friend either. He liked the timbre to her voice, clear and alto…deeper than when she was acting practiced. 

Sansa craned her neck and looked around the spacious office. 

“If my desk could be moved, I think it would be beneficial for me to stay in here.” 

His eyebrows rose. “I’ve never shared an office.” 

“Nor have I, Mr. Lannister,” Sansa replied without skipping a beat. 

Holding her in his gaze, Tywin waited to see if she would look away, or perhaps blush with the suggestion as the silence grew around them. Possibly even shift in her seat. But no, she was serious. 

As serious as any woman who felt she was in danger. 

“I appreciate silence when I work, Ms. Stark.” 

“I will move my typist’s machine to my room and transcribe after hours.” 

Tywin nodded slowly. “I’m afraid that you staying here might not make your situation any better.” 

“If I am to continue working here I will require some sort of protection, as I said before,” Sansa said evenly. “And if anything else happens to me or my belongings I will require more than just the compensation of my lost possessions.” 

It was a warning, clear as a bell. And one not to be taken lightly. 

The lines of her jaw flowed through her long neck and Tywin saw the strength that had previously been mistaken for simple well-taught posture. Sansa Stark was a surprise, and he felt his fingers itching to continue peeling away more of her in order to find some new layer hidden beneath. 

“But, Mr. Lannister,” she continued and Tywin noticed for the first time that the muscles of his arm was tense against the back of his chair, almost as if he was being pulled to her by gravity. “I would like you to have confidence in me and know that I do not intend to quit. I want this job. I want to work for you.” 

Tywin’s lips parted a fraction of a millimeter and he exhaled. The corners of his mouth itched and he indulged in a very small and impressed smile. “I value your work ethic, Ms. Stark,” he said, standing and putting some space between them. “and I do sincerely apologize for what has happened. I will do everything in my power to protect my investment in you.” 

He nodded towards the door. 

“Have that fellow find a friend and you can begin to move your desk and your things.” 

“Yes, sir,” Sansa chimed, her voice pitching up ever so slightly to let him know that the mask was being put back in place. “Would you like to hear the telegram first?” 

“Why not?” 

Sansa read it off. “Stannis Baratheon to meet tomorrow at ten o’clock. Mr. Baelish is to be present as well.” She then stepped towards the door, holding it open and speaking to Clegane’s relief. 

It was a lot of commotion to start the morning with the moving of furniture and the huffing of men, but it was over quickly. Sansa’s new position was near the door and when Tywin glanced up from his desk he was able to see her work from the side. The rest of the day was spent addressing and stamping envelopes and getting ready to mail. He had her transcribe a few more letters and correspondence and also had her mark down in a ledger the value of her stolen things. Joffrey and Cersei had managed enough sense to stay away, undoubtedly hearing through staff rumors that Sansa Stark was still in his employ.

By the end of the day Sansa handed him a neat and orderly receipt and he read it alone, pouring over the numbers of the things his rotten grandson had taken from her. At the bottom of the list was the item “one Bible, Old Gods,” but there was no price. He thought of it sitting upstairs in his room. 

Taking his pen, Tywin deliberately drew a straight line threw the item, crossing it off, but knowing full well its return would not be enough to make up for the rest of the list. 


	11. 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody,   
> Unfortunately, I must confess that this was far from my favorite chapter. I had tried different angles, stayed up through the night trying to describe this scene and I don't feel confident in my story telling. 
> 
> I know that in the books/show Tywin and Stannis are far from friends, but I wanted to explore their similarities more than their differences. They are not friends in this story, however they respect each other and are dependent on each other's business. I wanted Stannis to reflect a Ford type, an inventor and mechanic, with some mention of the assembly line working model (but this influence is very loose)
> 
> Also, I'm trying to explore how Tywin reacts when he loses, and in my mind I like to pretend that, while he stays composed, in his head he gets very defensive and immediately plans on what to do next to either seek revenge or regain control over the situation. 
> 
> Thank you all for your understanding, we all have off days and off chapters!  
> -J

Stannis Baratheon traveled with a small entourage. Sansa had been waiting outside of the door, Clegane next to her on his usual stool, at exactly twenty minutes to ten o’clock. She had spent the morning readying Mr. Lannister’s office while he sat at his desk, a false document next to the real and legitimate stock. She could feel his eyes on her as she moved all the chairs to circle around the table, her note taking pad resting on one. Sansa tried to make the least amount of noise possible and Tywin was patient, uncomplaining of the occasional scrape against the floor or huff from her chest.

In fact, he liked watching her. She was a strong girl, unafraid to do things on her own when most would lift up their nose and request help. When Sansa was finished she wordlessly glanced up on the alabaster faced clock that hung above the office doors before slipping outside to wait at her greeting post. 

Mr. Baelish walked in first and he gave a little smile as he approached, removing his bowler hat and tucking it beneath the arm that carried his briefcase. 

“Still here I see,” he quipped as he neared. Sansa could smell the peppermint and spiced aftershave on him. “I figured we’d all lose our jobs after that tirade.” 

Baelish was trying a little too hard to settle his feet on some sort of common ground between them and Sansa was unwilling to assist in the laying of that foundation. She looked at him, his bright eyes darting up to meet hers after he was caught sizing her up once again. “Why would we lose our jobs? We weren’t involved, Mr. Baelish.” 

The smile faltered, his moustache twitching as it drooped. 

Heels clicked behind him and Sansa looked past. A shorter and older man with a tightly trimmed gray beard stepped inside, his riding boots rather loud in the heel. He looked about and gave a nod over his shoulder. He was followed by perhaps one of the sternest looking men Sansa had ever laid eyes upon. The frown lines looked as if they had been carved into his skin like he was made of granite, harsh and unyielding. Stannis Baratheon no doubt…the luxury of his gray suit gave him away. 

Sansa opened her mouth to speak, to welcome them, but she was interrupted by a third person gliding in. Quite surprisingly, it was a woman. And a glamourous one at that. With a deep wine colored dress, bustled and full-skirted like an evening gown, the woman stepped further into the foyer. A black hat was pinned to her tall coil of deep red hair, a thin veil covering her eyes, yet it was in the style of fashion over mourning. 

The three of them all moved towards Sansa and Mr. Baelish, the servants pulling the doors shut behind them. 

“Good morning, Mr. Baratheon,” Sansa greeted politely, trying her best to look directly at the machinist and not his traveling companions. “Mr. Lannister thanks you for arriving upon such short notice.” 

“I’ll let him tell me that,” Stannis grunted. His eyes moved up and down her plain skirts. She looked like a common baker’s wife compared to the woman who stood behind him, drowning in maroon satin. “Is he ready?” 

Sansa gave a nod, “Of course. I will let you in. Would any of you like refreshments? I can send for a coffee and tea tray.” 

The man with the beard gave a smile and his eyes crinkled as if he did it quite often. “That will be fine, thank you.” 

Petyr stepped to the side while Sansa turned to open the door and out of her peripheral she watched him shift his weight from one foot to the other. She pushed it open and stood, eyes trained at the man who was already looking up at her, ready. 

“Mr. Stannis Baratheon for you, sir.” 

With a nod of his blonde head, she stepped aside and let them all move. Petyr trailed behind, aware that he was not part of the welcome. She held out a hand and spoke clearly. “Please seat yourself by the fireplace and I will fetch the tea tray.” 

After summoning staff with the buzzer and waiting patiently for the tray, Sansa returned, the silver clutched in her hands. She glided through the room smoothly, setting it down at the coffee table before returning to softly close the office door. 

“I’ll keep an ear out for trouble,” she heard Clegane grunt from his seat. She spared a glance at him before the heavy oak door shut. Sansa wondered how he could hear anything at all through the dense woodgrain. 

With luck, they had enough chairs, as Tywin Lannister did not intend to sit. Sansa took up her notepad and settled down, unscrewing the cap of her pen. She dated the upper corner and waited patiently, her job of reception and hospitality now complete. 

“I trust the journey went smoothly?” Tywin asked, coming around his desk. 

“Yes,” the bearded man answered for Mr. Baratheon. He glanced at Sansa. “If I may ask who this is? I would like to thank her for her hospitality this morning.” 

“This is my assistant, Ms. Stark” he replied coolly. Assistant. 

The man raised his eyebrows and Sansa noticed Mr. Baratheon flick his granite-like eyes to her, watching intently. 

“Well, I assist Mr. Baratheon as well. I’m the director of operations, Mr. Seaworth, or Davos if you rather,” he offered a chuckle, easing the tension, “Truly I’m just a wrench-turner, but I know Mr. Baratheon’s factories as if they are my own home.” 

Tywin nodded before regarding the woman. “And who’s this? Your secretary?” 

“No,” she answered herself, her chin held high. “you are quite mistaken. I advise Mr. Baratheon. I am Melisandre.” 

Stannis shifted in his seat Petyr cleared his throat. 

“Of course,” Tywin murmured softly, “an advisor. How silly of me. Has Mr. Baelish informed you of the reason we requested you so urgently?” 

“No,” Stannis responded. 

Tywin went back to his desk and retrieved the two documents. He brought them back, handing them to Stannis and they were passed between themselves. Baelish looked on, his face blank. He seemed to be following the papers with his eyes. 

“What you are looking at are two pieces of stock for Casterly Rail Company,” the Old Lion explained, standing next to Sansa’s chair. “One is a forgery.” 

“How unfortunate,” Melisandre mused, holding both of them in her slender fingers. 

“The forgery is part of a large sum that was sold back to us by your company, Stannis,” Tywin continued, his voice dipping to a near growl. “I would like to know how you managed to come across such a large fraud.” 

Stannis looked to him and he was not defensive, nor was he insulted. It was hard to read anything on his face, really. 

“I think I have the answer to this,” Davos interjected, “There was an audit last month and that was when we were informed of a rather large amount of stock that would benefit to us to sell. We had more shares than what we needed.” 

“An audit?” 

“Yes.” 

Tywin reached and rested his hand on the high back of Sansa’s chair, his thumb twitching and needing to drum against something. 

“An auditor from the Iron Bank?” 

“I was lead to believe that it was a branch off company that handles loss and gain, yet they operated under the seal of Braavos,” Davos answered. He took the papers from Melisandre and held them up to the light. 

“Why were you so keen to sell off your shares?” Tywin asked, “You’ve always been a loyal investor and partner.” 

Money fueled men and Stannis had been loyal for years as he sat in his comfort of Tywin Lannister’s trust. His cogs, pistons, and gears repaired and pushed Tywin’s trains forward, chugging and reliable. In fact, Stannis Baratheon had a monopoly on all the manufactured parts of Casterly Rail’s engines, all the way down to the little steam whistle. If something was damaged it was his pocket that was filled before the repairs would be ordered. Tywin certainly kept him busy enough and when the two of them shook hands nearly a decade ago it was the soundest and fairest partnership at the time. And it made both of them rich. A self-feeding machine. 

Or perhaps it was a snake feasting upon its own tail. 

A man like Stannis Baratheon didn’t sell off shares unless there was something greener looming behind the eclipse of Tywin’s own empire. And it was hard to keep an eye from the scheming when he was so far up his tower of ivory. 

Stannis downed his coffee and set the cup on the tray. It was the woman that spoke next. “There are other companies, Mr. Lannister. More partnerships mean more demand for Stannis’s machinery. He was told e had something he didn’t need and if the company sold it back it would provide me some petty cash for new investments.” 

You of all people should understand,” Mr. Baratheon added, his eyes moving from Tywin to Sansa. “Seems to me you’re already reaching out to the newest family in the game… Stark.” 

Davos, Melisandre, and Baelish all looked at her. Sansa looked at her notes. She had only managed to write out “auditor,” and she felt the air grow hot around her as she was studied. 

Their eyes on her made Tywin bristle. “I want to know where these came from. As it stands, you have made no money. Forged documents are null, useless. I expect to be paid back.” 

Baratheon stood and Sansa looked up at him, surprised by the sudden movement. He snatched the papers from Davos and held them to the light as well. 

“As you can see the watermark was replicated,” Tywin quietly explained. 

Sansa noticed that Mr. Baratheon tensed at the sound of Tywin’s words. He turned to face the Old Lion fully, flint eyes narrowed and sharp. “You think a stamp was forged in our plant?” 

Tywin was quiet, watching as Baratheon started to show signs of insult. “I manufacture metal and machines, I’m no printing press. I had nothing to do with this, Tywin. And I should not be held accountable for your blunder in the purchase of documents you could not verify. That’s your buyer’s responsibility, not mine. If I sell a fake ring to a pawn shop that is the shop owner’s mistake.” 

The blonde man inhaled, standing even taller. “If someone had been making parts with the Baratheon stag stamped on your iron and sold it without profiting you, you would be just as angered as I.” 

Davos looked to Petyr, who had been quiet up until now, eyes wide with the threat of a scene. Both men were fueled by their pride, both insulted and assuming the other was trying to pull a trick. 

“Mr. Baelish, is this not the perfect example for the insurance that you offered?” Melisandre interrupted, her voice a calm coo. 

Sansa heard the leather crinkle beneath Tywin’s curled fingers. 

Petyr’s eyes darted to him then to her and he licked his lips before he spoke. “The bonds are insured through Casterly Rail to ensure fixed income for an added interest percentage returned with each payment.” 

Tywin Lannister was buzzing, each fiber of his body so tense that Sansa believed she could feel the vibration of his anger. Casterly Rail offered no insurance.

“Everyone get out, I wish to speak to Mr. Baratheon alone,” Tywin ordered. Melisandre cocked her head, ill-disguised incredulity showing through the fashionable veil. 

“Stannis needs his advisor,” she said, staying put. 

“You’ve known me for years, Stannis,” Tywin said smoothly, glaring at the decadent woman, “honor me the privacy.” 

Baratheon paused, thinking. He finally looked to the ground and nodded. “Out,” he ordered. 

Tywin’s thumb tapped on the back of Sansa’s seat, “you as well, Ms. Stark.” 

Everyone quickly left, except for Melisandre, who lingered in the doorway before Sansa reached past her and pulled the door shut. She could see Tywin’s straight back, the lines of his suit fitting him perfectly. He was angry, it only took days for her to realize that. How angry, she did not know, and truthfully she was happier out of the office than inside. 

“Stannis, you and I have been able to grow quite successful over the years. You are a valued partner. You know that if this had happened to you I would not hesitate to repay the funds,” Tywin said, forcing himself to sit down. He did not want Stannis to become even more defensive. 

“You’ve spoken some truth, Tywin,” Stannis said, doing the same, “yet I’m not quick to believe that you’d be so willing to refund. I was not even aware that the stocks were in my possession. But I need that money and I’m afraid I won’t be returning it.” 

“Why?” 

Stannis was stone. He withheld his answer and instead responded with another question. “What are you doing with Ned Stark’s daughter as your assistant? What interest do you have in oil? You’re a coal man.” 

Tywin cocked his head, surprised. “You’re aware of Ned Stark?” 

“Everybody is, Tywin,” Stannis answered. “He’s growing.” 

“I need items to ship.” 

Pursing his lips, Stannis mused quietly, “Ah yes…a train needs something to haul.” He looked at Tywin, thought of the years of careful treading they each used to step around each other. Bears trying not to anger the bees. “Tywin, have you thought of the possibility that your trains are nearing the peak of their usefulness?” 

He didn’t respond, but his emerald eyes glinted like sharp bits of glass that would cut if given the chance. 

“They were helpful in the wars, the skirmishes between the Northern and Southern lands, but they can only go where the rail allows them. What of the small towns? The little outlands that need supplies and are just begging to be explored.” 

“What is your point, Stannis?” 

Stannis sighed. “You’ve been a good partner to me. But I’ve instructed Davos and Melisandre to consider other options, other investments and I need that money to set the groundwork for something new. Your trains are the giants I used to read about as a boy, but even the giants fall, Tywin. And I am making a backup plan. However, I am still intending to fulfill our contract and provide the best mechanics I can. ” This came as little comfort.

With each word, Tywin’s face darkened. He gripped the armrest of his chair. 

“This conversation was only a matter of time. But, believe me when I tell you it was no trick, it was no scheme. I thought those bonds were legitimate. I thought I had a chance.” 

“Did you ever meet with Baelish regarding the selling of the stocks?” Lannister asked, his voice deliberate and practiced. Years of practice assisted him in the concealment of his growing storm. 

“No,” Stannis answered, “no, never him directly. I suppose Davos had spoken to him regarding possible investment insurance, which was the driving force that carried out the sale.” 

Tywin nodded, his own anger pressing through his chest like a pike, pinning him to where he sat. He felt that if he moved he would shatter. Or he would cause others to shatter.

“Things are changing, Tywin,” Stannis said. “There are younger and hungrier men in the game then there were when you started. Perhaps it would be time to retire? Sell off…disband.” 

Stannis was a hard man, not nearly as ruthless as Tywin had been in his prime, but an unwavering one all the same. He had become respected for his efficiency in patents and production and his unwavering ability to truly compromise. He ran his company like the Commandments of the Seven, always overstressing what was fair and by-the-book. Stannis was like a judge in that way. And if there was ever a man to speak frankly to Tywin, it was him. The great steam trains were in his hands and he had always mended, repaired, and manufactured. 

However, Stannis Baratheon was notoriously fast moving. He could make parts in less time than it took for the old ones to break, already readying orders on sort of a subscription, keeping tabs on what trains he mended and how often they were serviced. If there was any man in the world that understood the importance of flexibility and keeping with the current, it was Stannis. 

But for all of his productivity and planning, Stannis Baratheon didn’t have the one thing that Tywin Lannister possessed in his back pocket. 

Independence. 

Parts could not survive without a machine to mend. 

Baratheon was planning something, some sort of unnamed deal that was important enough to risk upsetting and dissolving his contract with Casterly Rail over a sum that could surely be repaid. And Tywin believed that Stark could possibly be a part of it. 

Tywin’s molars pressed so tightly together he thought for a moment that they would shatter like porcelain. 

“What are you planning with Stark?” he asked blatantly, not enough patience to deal with the dancing they were doing. 

Stannis’s brow furrowed. “Why is that your business? You ship his oil, you don’t make it and you do not sell it.” 

Baratheon’s lack of an answer spoke volumes. However he had a point…Tywin’s contract consisted of flat rate shipping and insurance that Stark could use no other rail or shipping company. Lannister had no pull over the oil itself or what it was used for. 

“Fine,” Tywin said. “Then forget Stark. What are you planning, Stannis? What do you want? What has happened to us that caused you to doubt our future as partners?” 

His investor stood. “I’m not your enemy, Tywin. But I must stand firm. I want what every man wants,” he said, pulling at his cuffs and looking down at the Great Lion. “The chance to create something that pushes us into the future, that furthers ourselves as men.” 

Baratheon did not wait to be dismissed. He had already decided the meeting was finished. But before he left, Stannis Baratheon turned and said something that barely cut through the rush of Tywin’s own blood in his ears. “I was never aware of those shares until Mr. Seaworth was contacted by Petyr Baelish. While I value this conversation we’ve just had, I feel that he may be the ones with the red hands, not I. My only mistake was not having this talk sooner with you, Tywin. I never wish to be an enemy.” 

Well...men rarely got what they wished for. 

The door opened and Stannis saw himself out. Out in the foyer, the three of them quickly left, stepping back into their carriage. Stannis was going to rattle away back up the road and continue with whatever little plan he had and Tywin was stranded in his home, unable to do anything while the waves shifted around him. The Lion’s fury was growing, fueled by the suspicion that everyone on his contract list were turning against him. If Stannis could be swayed enough to doubt, then who else? 

He needed a target. 

Tywin called for Sansa. She stood in the doorway and had he looked at her he would’ve seen her nervousness. 

“Bring in Baelish. And Clegane.” 

“Um…sir…Mr. Baelish is gone.” 

Tywin’s head snapped to her, sharp and angular, his lips in a snarl. He unfolded himself from his chair in a flash. “What?” 

He was to her in only three or four strides, his long legs chewing up the expanse of the room easily. 

She looked up at him. “He said he had other business to attend to, he needed to see the clerks.” 

Tywin glared at Sandor. “Find him. I want that bastard brought back here by the scruff if you need to!” 

Clegane slid off the stool and hurried out the door, no questions asked. Sansa was left with Tywin, the tall man’s chest heaving in the wake of his vehemence. He looked like a fighter, the type that grappled with each other in the run down stables while people placed bets. He turned to look at her, the breath leaving his lips in little puffs. Sansa was meeting his eyes and he felt the blue seep into his blood, but they did not calm him. Quite the opposite. Stannis’s words echoed in his head. 

_Perhaps you should retire. Sell off…disband. _Sansa was a Stark, the daughter of the man that seemed to be creeping into Tywin’s head and stirring up thoughts he hadn’t had since he was younger and less secure.__

__Could it be possible that she shared the same thoughts? Doubting him? Tywin didn’t know why he cared. Perhaps it was the possibility that she was the first person to see a weakness… and not just one. His arm had been bound and tender, useless and injured and she had seen it. Sansa was the one that spotted the trick that Tywin had missed…which had never happened before, back when he was hungry. On the first day she stepped into his office she rescued him and he was unused to being recused. Sansa Stark saw the mess of his family, saw the disloyalty of his own employees as Baelish leered at her before slipping away like a snake._ _

__Through the red his vision the image of Sansa wrapped up in his wealth shot though his head and he felt possessive, yet defensive. Like he wanted to pull her back to the office and prove himself to her. Show her his glory. Reassure her…no himself…that he was still the all-powerful Tywin Lannister and that Stannis had spoken out of turn and had made a dire mistake._ _

__Tywin did not like the way his head was churning and he felt bile rise in his throat. He felt fire, in his chest and in his groin. He had stayed cooped up in his estate for too long, content with his day-to-day managing like a lazy zookeeper with a whip while the animals paced in their cages, hungry to disobey. He owned the country, Gods be damned, and he needed to remind those around him._ _

__And Sansa Stark needed to see him for who he was. A lion._ _

__“Call for a carriage. And call for bags to be packed. We’re going to King’s Landing.”_ _


	12. 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> We are going to see Sansa struggle through tons and tons of conflict in the chapters to come
> 
> Thank you all for staying with this story! As always, your words and encouragement mean the world to me and i have some amazing people reading this!  
> Lots of love -J

“Tell me about your father,” Tywin’s suggested, his voice quiet in the plush car of the train. The two of them were sitting across from each other in a cocktail lounge, only taking up one of Tywin’s three cars on this particular train. They were chugging southeast, towards the capital and she had her neck craned to watch out the window, an untouched glass of water in front of her. She had been quiet and Tywin appreciated it as he waited for the buzzing in his head to clear. But now, just the two of them, Tywin found himself resisting his usual need for silence.

Sansa pulled her gaze away from the rushing trees and hills. “What do you wish to know, Mr. Lannister?” 

Was she playing stupid? He wondered if she knew of what he and Stannis had talked about. He set his jaw, looking around at the cocktail and meal car, all lacquered cherry and deep velvet. 

“What did he do before he got into the fuel business?” 

“I suppose he did what he could,” Sansa answered. “I remember him owning a few shops and doing this and that, we were never poor…but nowhere near wealthy.” 

Tywin tapped his finger against her ambiguity. 

“Did he ever apply for patents? Did he ever invent anything?” 

Sansa’s brow furrowed as she thought. “Forgive me sir, but up until my recent interest in secretarial work I was never very informed of what my father did for employment. I know that my brothers Robb and Jon were involved, but they are older.” 

Tywin reached for his drink and took a sip and Sansa watched the amber alcohol touch his lips. “Surely he would have talked about something around the supper table,” he mused, sucking against his teeth and setting it back down. 

Mr. Lannister seemed off since Stannis Baratheon had stepped out of his office and Sansa tried her best to ignore the urge to simply stare out the window again. She knew how the two of them looked, alone in his railcar while he watched her like a hawk. He rubbed at his jaw, the sunlight catching against his gold and it flashed in her eyes. 

“What are we doing at the capital?” she asked instead of giving Tywin the information he wanted. 

“Ms. Stark,” he drawled, unblinking. “I asked you a question.” 

He was using her, delving into her memories in order to make assumptions about her father. She recognized the seemingly innocuous questions for what they were… reaching fingers disguised as small talk to pass the time. Sansa was reminded that she was sitting in Lannister’s plush seat, wearing clothes provided by him, and this morning she had woken up in a Lannister bed. For the first time since her employment she felt the threat of the gold and crimson pushing around her and she thought of her family back at home up in the cold. 

Tywin had been fair up until now, but Mr. Baratheon had said or done something that had put him on edge and Sansa did not want to be next in the line of people who would upset the Great Lion of Casterly Rail.

“He talked of trying to find a way to make kerosene and oil readily available in the North, to combat the winters, I heard him mention it once or twice but my mother never allows business talk at supper.” She paused, Tywin’s gentle tapping sounding like a quiet little heartbeat as he listened. “I think he abandoned the idea.” 

A Northern distribution system? A smaller train perhaps? Or shipment by boat? How could Ned Stark think of a way to make fuel so readily available to such a sparsely populated territory? Tywin tried his best to envision what the man had been thinking, but he found it hard to even imagine even a starting place. Could this idea be what Stannis was hinting at before? 

Crossing his legs and interlacing his fingers in his lap, Tywin asked, “Are you sure he did, Ms. Stark? You did mention his business ideas weren’t the most interesting to you.” 

For the first time Tywin sounded condescending to her. Sansa was not going to have it and her answer was firm. “I am sure, Mr. Lannister, because he signed a transportation contract with Casterly Rail. He needed shipment.” 

Tywin darkened. 

“May I say something, Mr. Lannister?” she asked. He regarded her for a moment, his green eyes burdened by his pinched brow. He worked his jaw before tipping his head back and motioning to her vaguely with a hand. 

“Go on.” 

Sansa was unfaltering. “I do not know what was said between you and Mr. Baratheon and I fully understand that it is not my business, unless you instruct me to make it so. But there is something in your tone and the way you regard me that makes me feel like a suspect and I would like to know why.” 

Tywin had never been spoken to by a woman in that way, not since his wife used to reprimand him for letting a bad day of work sour his private time at home. Stark was not defiant like his daughter was, pitchy shrieks and outbursts. But, even though she was his secretary, Sansa was drawing a line in the sand. She had been observant of everything he had done or said and now he was being confronted. 

He huffed. “There were some things said by Stannis that leads me to believe that he is working with your father, or wanting to invest with him.” 

“Are you fearful that they will do something to undermine you, Mr. Lannister?” 

Tywin stood up quickly, reaching for his now empty glass. He stepped to the bar. “Why should that be any of your business?” he snapped, “what a bold assumption to be made by you, my secretary, so fresh-faced in the game.” 

“You called me your assistant earlier, Mr. Lannister. Shouldn’t assistants worry for the wellbeing of their employer?” 

The sentence was a stunner, the strike of a hammer to the pig’s brow on butcher day. He turned, long fingers curled around the decanter. Chewing and absorbing Sansa’s words, Tywin set it down and turned to face her fully. When Sansa saw the fire burn in his pupils she suddenly regretted her words and tried her best not to shrink away. Sansa had angered him and he moved towards her like the lion approaches the hunter when the gun is lost. 

“Confident, aren’t you?” he quietly growled, standing across from her, knees almost pressing against the table that separated them. “Comfortable as well.” 

He watched her squirm in the silence that followed his observation while his mind raced. All of the richest men were suspicious, and Tywin was notoriously careful with the people in his life and now that the sheet was pulled he could only watch as the ugly underbelly of the schemers he had employed glow white in the exposed light. Baelish, his money man, had fucked him with his own shares, Cersei and Joffrey were threatening to waste away hears of savings, and even his loyal partner Stannis openly doubted his success in the years to come. 

Yet here Sansa Stark sat. Days had passed, mere days, and he had without question swept her up and stuck her by his side as he tried to think up the next move. Cersei’s words pricked like little needles to the back of his mind, the small and paranoid part that controlled his boot with each step up the ladder. Tywin thought of the way he felt when she discovered the fraud, how he had lost all formality and leaned against his desk with her near, a stranger that he had convinced himself he enjoyed. 

Why? Could he have truly been disarmed by her beauty? Did her blue eyes and red hair cast a rose-colored glow that hid the parts from him that he didn’t wish to see? How could he be sure that, in such a short amount of time, she held loyalty to him and not her father? 

That was not realistic. 

“You have managed to worm your way very deep into my good graces in rather a short amount of time, haven’t you, Ms. Stark? You must be practiced,” he finally said. 

It was a jab, a patronizing one at that. The blue of her eyes darkened to look like roiling water. “Practiced?” 

Tywin put his hands in his pockets, chin dipped. He spoke to his shoes. “Did you truly want to work for me? Or were you sent to school in order to create someone your father knew I could not say no to?” 

Sansa burned. She thought of the countless hours she spent studying and reading while the boys muttered beneath their breaths about how she should be looking for a husband or learning her mother’s recipes. The same boys that would undoubtedly show up after class and offer her a picnic or a bouquet as if they were doing their best to rescue her from the horrible mistake of a woman’s education. She thought of the way her mother would shake her head remorsefully with each beautiful afternoon wasted away in the library As she stared at Tywin Lannister, Sansa finally thought of the sadness in her father’s eyes when she finally spoke of her ambition, to be working for the greats, to learn how to be independent and to see the world with the Casterly Rail Company. The same company that had been used as a business model in every single one of her classes while her professors boasted about the true dream it was to be a man like Tywin Lannister. The Great Lion. 

And here it had been pissed away because the man himself only saw her as a possible pawn. 

“I used to stare at your picture in my books,” Sansa finally said, her voice quavering lowly. Tywin’s eyebrows rose and he looked back at her. He was surprised to find that her mask was gone and he was staring at Sansa Stark, the same that had suffered through a burdening embarrassment and listed off demands in its wake. 

“I used to listen to my instructors tell all the boys that they should all dream to be men like you or Baratheon or Bolton, while I sat in the back and stared at you, imagining how you did it. And I felt jealousy. Not of your wealth or your trains, I had no jealously for you, Mr. Lannister. I was envious of them, those stupid boys. I knew that they had what I didn’t…opportunity. They had a chance to become great, to own lands and titles and patents.” 

Tywin’s eyes moved from hers to her lips, watching the way they barely quivered with her conviction, her teeth flashing as she continued. 

“So I would stay up at night to try and become what I could, trying to find the thing that would be the closest to being like you. And I begged to come on the trip to Casterly. All my schooling and all my training, I knew that hiring me would be one of the best decisions you would ever make because I _wanted _it.”__

__Her eyes were shining, but no tears fell. Tywin wondered if she ever cried._ _

__“Mr. Lannister, it may seem like mere days to you, but for me it’s been much longer. I told myself, back in that classroom, that if I were ever able to work for Casterly Rail Company I would do everything in my power to be valuable to you. But with that being said…I will not beg or plead, or reassure. I’ve already worked far too hard to get here.”_ _

__For the first time in a long while, he felt foolish. Speechless. All he could do was stare._ _

__Sansa Stark was exposed, radiant and strong with her confession. He was immersed in her past and her truth and realized that it all made sense, her impeccable manners, her practiced voice, her mannerisms…like something out of a textbook. There wasn’t a rouse to place her in his inner circle, it was a long-burdened path of hard work and ambition that placed her there, deliberately. Ambition he was unfamiliar with because he, Tywin Lannister, was not a woman. He was able to indulge in the ruthlessness and cunning of business openly and without scrutiny._ _

__Suddenly, Tywin felt hungry, but not in his stomach. He had never faced another human that was fueled by the same level of inner ambition he had. Motivation that had resulted in brawls and Tywin’s bloody knuckles in order to scrap up enough money to buy one boat off the rocky shores of the west. Others waited until they were faced with the spoils of someone else before they decided that they, too, wanted glory and riches. Some, like his daughter, were fueled by image. Others by control._ _

__Sansa Stark was driven by the need to be able to stand on her own two feet and be unable to be knocked down, no matter how hard others would try. And he found himself wanting to help her. He had grown lax in his growing age, complacent with the assumption that there would be no one else like him…but now as he stood over her he felt an electrifying pull to her._ _

__The dream had been false. She didn’t need to be wrapped up in his money and seals…._ _

__But he wanted her to be. Tywin wanted her to be untouchable._ _

__Sansa swallowed, suddenly doubting her words as her fieriness subsided. Perhaps she shouldn’t have ended with a warning. He had made no noise while she spoke, rarely a movement, until she was finished. Tywin cast his eyes downwards, bringing up a hand and running his finger beneath his bottom lip, the red and gray bristles rough on his own skin. Then he turned, moving to the bar and taking up the decanter again. The light was starting to deepen as the day drew on and she could see the blonde in his hair almost turn white at the temples. He then moved to the briefcase he had set on the bar top once they had stepped into the car, ignored until this point. It opened and shut with a click._ _

__When he turned around, Tywin Lannister was holding two glasses and had a book tucked beneath his arm. He returned, holding one out to her. She paused and he gave her a nod, his mouth softening into an encouraging smile._ _

__“Go on. You’ve earned it.”_ _

__The burn on her tongue was unfamiliar but was cathartic, healing the wounds the truth had left._ _

__“I’m sorry, Ms. Stark,” Tywin murmured, sitting back down. He set his glass down and took the book in his hand. “I let my own suspicions get the better of me.” Tywin then held out the worn Old Gods bible out to her, an olive branch._ _

__The blue softened back into skies, the roiling ocean subsiding while she reached for it. Sansa lightly drug her thumb along the pages as he had. He was delighted to see that she remained Sansa Stark, not putting the mask of obedience back on._ _

__“I would assume that you didn’t get to where you are by thinking the best of people,” she mused, taking another drink and placing the bible in her lap. “Thank you for bringing this back to me. I thought everything had been destroyed.”_ _

__Tywin found himself chuckling softly, “No, luckily Clegane was able to find this. Trade secret. Be careful who you put your trust into.” Her throat bobbed with each swallow of her drink._ _

__“So,” Tywin said, his voice humming conspiratorially and he held his glass to his lips, still smiling, “you would look at my picture in class, Ms. Stark?”_ _

__For the first time, Tywin watched as Sansa’s lips parted in a wide smile, her teeth even and white. “It was an old textbook, you looked much younger.”_ _

__His foot bobbed and he shrugged, looking out the windows as the trees zipped by._ _

__“Mr. Lannister, what are we going to do at the capital?”_ _

__Tywin swallowed some brandy and swirled his glass and Sansa watched him turn his attention back on her._ _

__“Something that is going to make a lot of people very upset.”_ _

__-________________________________________________________________________

__“Tywin shut down his rails.”_ _

__Ned’s head snapped up, “What? When?”_ _

__His son, Robb handed him the telegram, visibly seething. His brother Jon watched as Ned read it, his eyes skipping over the paper quickly Then it was passed to him, last. It had been sent by Stannis’s office, which sat just to the north of the capital._ _

__Jon read aloud, “The King’s Rail has been closed for three days and now the smaller branches are also stalled, no movement. New construction has halted at the Twins and the bridge to the Riverlands is blocked.”_ _

__“Did you hear anything about this?” Ned asked Roose Bolton, who sat like a pillar across the conference table, his short hair making him look as if he had been dipped in ash. The fire roared at the end of the room to combat the Northern chill that came with the evenings. Five men sat around the table, three of them Starks, Bolton, and Edmure Tully._ _

__“No,” Roose replied, looking bored. “The only time I hear of Tywin is when he needs a new rail, not when he closes one.”_ _

__“He can’t do this,” Robb snapped, “We signed a contract for shipment. He is withholding his end of the deal.”_ _

__Ned stood, a sinking feeling in his stomach. “I have a sneaking suspicion that he took these three days to finish shipping whatever he had, thus fulfilling his contract for the time being. Stannis had sent word that he had been called upon by the CRC earlier in the week.”_ _

__Edmure spoke, “Ned, how much time do you have before you run out of barrels to fill what the refinery is producing?”_ _

__Stark reached for a log from the wood rack and tossed it into the hearth, watching the embers spark. “Not more than a month. Some of the barrels are on their last legs as it stands. Why would he do this?”_ _

__“Someone’s made him mad,” Bolton drawled, pulling an engraved silver cigarette case. He lit one, smothering the match between his thumb and forefinger. “Couldn’t have been me, I’ve kept that beasts belly full for many years.”_ _

__“I fear what Stannis may have said to him,” Ned sighed, coming back to the table. Their conference room was the repurposed dining room for the newly renovated Winterfell._ _

__“I knew you shouldn’t have gotten involved with him,” Robb argued, pointing at the telegram. “He’s too far away, too out of reach and he’s been close to Casterly Rail for far too long.”_ _

__Ned held up a hand, silencing his boy. Jon looked on._ _

__“We’ve done nothing wrong,” Jon said, looking at his father. “We’ve been in conversation with Baratheon before Tywin Lannister sniffed out our oil. You had the attorney’s look over the CRC contract once you returned home.”_ _

__Ned sighed and sat back at the table. “I know we’ve done nothing wrong,” he said, “but that doesn’t change the fact that Tywin Lannister feels slighted, tricked, and he’s making us pay for it.”_ _

__“The man doesn’t like to lose,” Bolton quipped, blowing smoke up in the air. “He’s managed to take my steel at just barely above manufacture cost, but he buys so much of it I can’t smelt enough to sell elsewhere.”_ _

__Robb looked at Roose, his nose crinkling against the tobacco smell. “Is he still building at the same rate?”_ _

__“No, I suppose not. But you can’t make the North spit out more ore. Which is why I’m here, let’s not forget.”_ _

__“This complicates things,” Ned mused, not quite paying attention to Bolton._ _

__“I’m still interested in what you suggested earlier, Tywin’s tantrum hasn’t scared me off,” Bolton inturrupted, not wanting to be ignored. He craned his neck and looked about for an ashtray. Edmure pushed one across the table before he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a large map of the country. Bolton continued to talk as the paper was unfurled. “I’m sick of the smelting, the heat and the mess. I want to focus on mining.”_ _

__His eyes glinted as he thought of the explosives._ _

__Edmure spoke, giving Ned a look to confirm that he wasn’t intruding. Pointing to the map, he said, “ As you have heard, my sister, Lysa, is widowed. She is looking to profit off of the Vale and the metals in the rock. If you sign the steel plant over to Stark Oil then you would be provided mining rights and ownership of the ore with a percentage payback to the Arryn’s.”_ _

__Bolton’s thin lips twisted in a crooked smile. “See, now that plan I like. I’d be gaurenteed profit on the plants, yes? You’ve taken my original cost of building and machinery into account in your offer?”_ _

__Robb’s eyes narrowed, “Of course. But we won’t be able to do anything about what you mine if there’s no rails.”_ _

__Roose pursed his lips, “It’ll take me a while to get settled, hopefully by then this will all be resolved. What of Grayjoy? Does he not have a small train that snakes across the Neck? And his ships?”_ _

__Ned shook his head, “Iron Shipping is a little too close to Casterly for my taste. Besides, his train is passenger, not commercial.”_ _

__“Well,” Bolton huffed, pulling out his pocket watch. “Regardless of what you decide I’m ready to sign as soon as the papers get written up. I’m looking forward to the change.” He smiled as he stood, his eyes glinting. “Hope your sister has good boulders. Good evening, gentlemen. Send for me as soon as everything is written up.”_ _

__Roose Bolton made an exaggerated reach across the table to shake Ned’s hand before he strode out of the conference room, already reaching for another cigarette._ _

__“He’s a necessary thorn in the side, isn’t he?” Edmure muttered in Bolton’s wake._ _

__“Father, if you’ve needed any reason to move forward with this, it’s now,” Robb urged, pointing to the map that sat on the table. “Look at the expanse of the North. Our citizens need fuel and light and transportation. And now we have the steel. We have the bones to build our own self-sufficient land.”_ _

__Ned stared at the North. He looked up at Jon. “Are you still in contact with Jeor about reinforcing the Wall?”_ _

__Jon nodded, “And now we have the steel, father.”_ _

__As Ned Stark looked at the map he could only see his dream, his wish. An efficient, prosperous North. The sparse population had caused the rest of the country to turn up their noses, thinking of the land as inhospitable and rugged. It had sat ignored for far too long and the people were growing tired of their dependence of the men in far-away cities making the choices for them._ _

__This was so much more than Stark Oil. With his dependable and loyal sons as his extra hands, they had managed to lay the groundwork for the dream that had consumed him since even before their births. The Northern Working Group…the blanket company that would finally give the people what they needed. This was going to give them a voice and some weight in the fighting of the world._ _

__Hands have been shaken with Stannis Baratheon and his production line. He had promised a revolutionary invention that would be completed within the year. A machine that would make transportation easier and more reliable than horses and carriages. A way to connect the North, drive out the isolation that had stunted their growth for so long. And marrying a Tully had ensured Ned’s connection with Edmure, the charging force in the possibility of controllable light and warmth._ _

__Ned had always known that the North had the potential to be just as shining and glorious as the southern cities, but the endless darkness, the cold, and the sheer size of the land had stunted their growth, malnourished them while they drowned in natural recourses._ _

__With the Bolton’s agreement to sell they were leap closer to the birth of the Northern Working Group. Though, Ned did not feel like celebrating. Tywin Lannister loomed in the horizon, gnashing his teeth and threatening to pull them all ten steps backwards. Tywin liked the world the way it was and he was not about to let go of such a rich land without dipping his hands into it. The halting of all Casterly Rail Company shipments was a brash and surprising blow to Stark’s confidence. Perhaps he should have looked at other shipping options before pulling the Great Lion into his life._ _

__And what of Sansa?_ _

__“Robb, send a letter,” Ned requested. “Urgently. I want you to make contact with your sister. I want to make sure she’s all right.”_ _

__Guilt had filled him, muting the joy he should have been feeling. The last week or so had been filled with tending to Roose Bolton and the acquirement of the steel plants and he had forgotten to write to Sansa. She had not written to him either. She was a good girl and he assumed that she was just being kept busy with these antics. The old phrase “No news is good news,” filled his head._ _

__However, now he saw an ugly side to Tywin Lannister and that unnerved him. He had thought that the Old Lion had been sated, ruling the land in business for the last twenty years. Ned thought the Lannister’s were happy at Casterly Rock, sitting and relaxing while the interest of Tywin’s horde continued to fill his pockets. But that had proven to be a dire mistake. Tywin had just been resting, waiting to see what the lands would do with their newfound wiggle room._ _

__And now Ned Stark was realizing that his beautiful daughter was handed over to the Lion’s claws eagerly and enthusiastically._ _


	13. 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I must preface this with stating the obvious....I have such a rudimentary understanding of business and stock exchange that I beg for everyone's patience. I'm simply doing my best for the story! (Though, leave it up to me to create a story during the most business-driven years of history!)  
> I thank all of you for your understanding that this is still just something I'm fleshing out on my own for pure fun!
> 
> Special thanks to those you routinely leave comments, they are such a treat and I find myself thinking, "Wonder what so-and-so would think of this??" You guys are incredible! I hope you all have wonderful weekends and perhaps I will keep up the pace!  
> Lots of love-J

Sansa had not been expecting the stink of King’s Landing. Garbage, waste, blood, and rot clung to the humid air with grubby tendrils and it churned her stomach, smothering the childish fantasy of the decadent metropolis by the sea with each inhale. For three days she had been by Tywin’s side, venturing away only at night to rest in her room of Tywin’s townhome, which sat across stone building that was Casterly Rail Company’s main office. The height of the townhome did nothing to combat the heat, but the stink was weakened by the distance from the ground and the breeze provided some comfort. While the estate was the picture of overindulgence and wealth, the townhome was much more reserved. Still richly decorated, but within the means of a man who rarely stayed. And yet, there were staff, undoubtedly on loan from the office.

“It’s a waste of sorts,” Tywin had muttered when they had walked in for the first time, “it’s rarely used, as I’ve grown fond of staying away from the city.”

The night of their arrival, they had quickly hurried to bed, dinner already having been consumed on the train. Sansa had tried her best to rest, but the noise from the streets had found her easily. Yelling, barking, whinnying from the horses, all sorts of sounds that she was unused to picked at her until she was unable to manage and she stuffed a pillow over her head. Muffled by the plucked down, Sansa was finally able to think. She considered writing to her father in the morning, ask him openly about what was going on, but she knew that was not her place, nor could she guarantee an honest answer. 

The next morning had been a blur. She had barely enough time to chomp at the pieces of toast the unnamed housemaid had brought into her room before three solid knocks echoed through her room. Dressed and hair plaited, she answered, trying her best to seem familiar in this new place. Tywin was waiting for her, well dressed in linen and a red scarf at tucked into his waistcoat. Clutched in one hand was a cane, black ebony with a lion’s head molded from gold and the brim of a top hat was pinched in his fingers. In lieu of greeting, he instructed her to bring writing materials and he handed her an empty ledger, thin with only a few pages. 

“Pen or graphite, Mr. Lannister?” Sansa found herself asking while he watched her hands take the book. 

“Graphite,” he replied, not stepping through her doorway. “There will be abrupt changes.” 

She nodded, fetching a few pencils. Amused, he noticed as she pushed one through the back of her braid, ready to be used at a moment’s notice. 

The city had been alive and vibrant in the daytime. The roads churned with people’s boots and the hooves of horses. Sansa squinted against the warm daylight, felt it glow against her skin and it felt foreign. Tywin kept a hand light on her back, his fingertips barely touching the fabric of her high-waist skirt as they paused on the front stoop. He placed a top hat on his head and the beaver fur tinted brown in the sun. 

“Ready, Ms. Stark?” she heard him ask through the din, his eyes trained on the marble building across the way. Etched into the stone was the name of his company, a lion engraved at either side of the entrance. 

“Yes,” she had lied, feeling his arm at her back and he kept her close, ushering her through the din and the activity. 

People treated Tywin Lannister like a general. Or a king. When he stepped through the doorway with her at his side everyone in the building froze, their eyes wide at the entrance and gazing with rapt attention. Sansa’s breath hitched with all of the attention while Tywin calmly reached up and removed his hat. 

“Get me Kevan,” Tywin ordered to the empty space around the desks and the clerks. A massive chalkboard sat on the far end of the room, mapped with the spider-webbed lines of his rail. 

The order acted as the crack of a whip, an instant and violent reset of the worker drones. They buzzed and complied. Soon, the tall form of a man was striding through the flurry, navy trousers and waistcoat with a simple white shirt. The sleeves were rolled up for function and he wore half-rimmed spectacles, a pencil tucked behind his ear. 

“Brother,” Kevan Lannister said, “You did not send word that you’d be coming.” His eyes flashed to Sansa and she saw the resemblance, but stress had caused more lines to stretch at Kevan’s forehead and eyes. 

“No time,” Tywin answered as he allowed his brother to lead them to a back office near the chalkboard, the glass door engraved with Kevan’s name and title. Manager of Operations. 

The door shut and Sansa stood awkwardly at Tywin’s side. The two men were both tall, but Tywin seemed larger and she wondered if reputation had just made him seem that way. She looked at Kevan’s hands and realized that he must have been Tywin’s younger brother, less ligaments and veins. But the stress had not been kind to his face. 

“What’s going on?” Kevan asked, urgency in his voice. Over the years he had grown quite familiar with his older brother’s mannerisms and it didn’t take an expert to see that Tywin was upset. 

“Shut the rails down,” came the only response, serious and calm. “All of them. Ship all current loads but pick up none. Send the rail breakers to the conductors and instruct them freeze at the delivery stations.” 

“But, Tywin, what about the-” Kevan began but he was silenced with a glare. “I want nothing moving through this damned country. Send telegrams to the investors once the last train has stopped.” 

Kevan swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked at Sansa. “What is happening? This is madness.” Tywin stayed calm in the wake of his brother’s doubt. “No, Kevan, This is a warning.” “Is this about Stark?” 

The eldest brother stiffened at Sansa’s side. “What?” Kevan moved to his desk, shuffled through a pile of papers. “He’s opened up stock, last week. Found out by the brokers.” 

Sansa felt as if her name was glowing red in the small office, like a beacon. 

The man showed no emotion regarding the news. “Just do as I say, Kevan. Shut them all down. And put up blockades at the river crossings, all of them.” 

Kevan threw his hands up, “For how long?” 

In a lazy show of egotism, Tywin shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. Until I feel generous again."

“The market is going to panic, Tywin.” 

Tywin lightly touched Sansa’s arm and turned on his heel, it was time to go. “That’s the point, dear brother. Once the last train is empty we are going to market.” 

That exchange had been days ago and now it was the night of their last day at King’s landing and Sansa Stark had found each night challenging. Her father’s name and company kept floating around in the circles and the selling floors and she felt like a traitor. But who was suffering from her betrayal, she did not know. There were patterns that she was starting to see, connections with seemingly random companies that began to stretch their way like a gossamer web and as the days passed she was slowly becoming able to spot them. And the thought of it all kept her awake, along with the sound of the city and the moisture from the sea. 

Readjusting on the bed to rest on her side, her head sandwiched in the pillow, Sansa wondered what was driving her to want to question her father. True, Tywin was visibly bothered by the possibility of Stannis and her father working together, but was it really her right to get involved? Stark Oil could shake hands with whomever they pleased and that was no concern of hers…but it was a concern of Tywin. She thought of the drink he had offered her back in the train, thought of the way he watched her once she had finished telling of her intentions of loyalty, which have been nurtured by all her hard work. 

It was the first time that Sansa had truly felt understood. He had seen her as who she was, driven and bright. Not naive and mindless like the other girls were when they sat and gossiped in the parlor. But not as wild and vicious as her sister either. Tywin saw her as someone worth the effort, as someone to be trusted. 

Which was why she wanted to help him. Her father had humored her while at home, asked about her classes here and there without fully listening to what she was learning. It was no fault of his own, he had been as lovingly supportive as any father would be, but it always seemed as if he was just patiently waiting until she found interest in something else. Like a passing fancy. Meanwhile, Arya was allowed to indulge in fencing and riding, adventurous things that she could do with her brothers. No one wanted to spend the evening with Sansa reading business journals or history books and she had come to find comfort in her own head. Her father should have, but he had grown so busy with the company that he was often oversaturated with the subject matter and desired a break from the working world. 

Her mother had been even less understanding, shaking her head with the books and the reading. “It’s good to be smart, my love,” she would say, “but don’t let it consume you. You have so much to offer.” 

Again, Sansa never resented them; never hated feeling left out or judged, because she knew that just because they didn’t understand did not mean that she was unloved. 

Which was why she could not sleep and why she wanted to write a letter. But reaching out came with its own set of risks. She thought to the venom in Tywin’s eyes when he thought that she had possibly been a trick or a pawn. Even if Sansa wanted to help, there was a very real possibility that it would be misconstrued. Could Mr. Lannister possibly view it as embarrassing or emasculating if Sansa attempted to smooth out his problems for him? 

What could her father possibly be doing with Stannis Baratheon? 

She felt helpless on both sides, floating between family and the man that was giving her what she had always wanted, respect. She felt the lump of the Old Gods bible beneath her head, pressing upwards though the pillow she had stashed it beneath. Her one last possession…and he had sent someone to fetch it. Tywin had ordered his enforcer to investigate her tossed room and retrieve what he could. 

Sansa wondered what Tywin had commanded Clegane to do if the men had been found before he learned it was his own family. She thought of the viciousness of him when he demanded Baelish be returned to Casterly, eyes wild and lips snarling. His voice had made her bones shake, boomed in her chest like a drum. Tywin controlled his tall frame like fighter, momentarily looking more deadly than even the hulking Clegane. Fear quickened her pulse and widened her eyes. But there was more. 

She had liked it, liked the way the resolve and the control slipped away to show just how dangerous he could be. The chaos of the brokers’ den earlier today had flowed around him like a river and he simply stood at its center, motionless. The men had parted around him while he looked on, a boulder challenging just one man to ask him to move. Angered Tywin Lannister was the man she had read about, shoving the world into his mold with the ruthlessness of a king. 

The blankets felt tight around her and her legs twitched and kicked impatiently, as if the thought of laying still stung her like bees. 

Exasperated, the girl stood, her nightgown feeling sticky from the lush night air and searched for some sort of relief. The room had a balcony and it called to her, a slight breeze pushing the drapery of the propped open door. Sansa regarded her nightgown, soft and thin cotton. Edging nearer to the door, she searched to see how hidden away it was from the burning lamps below. The lamplighters had come through perhaps an two hours before and they were still new with oil. 

Cautiously, Sansa padded outside with bare feet, the floor of the balcony smooth laid tile. Through the gaps of the buildings and the dim light she could see the stretch of inky blackness that was the sea, its brine acting as the undertone to the rest of the city’s smell. Tucking her long night skirt around herself, Sansa quietly sunk to the ground, her back against the carved balustrade. She pulled her knees to her chest, made sure that in the darkness she was covered, and wrapped her arms about them. As she rested her chin upon her arms, Sansa looked out over the city streets, listened to the nighttime bustle. The burning green eyes of Tywin Lannister’s ferocity filled her wandering mind. 

Tywin was not sleeping either. He sat awake in an armchair, motionless in the dark. The day left the Old Lion invigorated, his throat still burning with the booming of his own voice. He could still still the chalk dust around him, along with the cigar smoke of the panicking brokers as they scrambled to update their boards. The scraping of the blackboard fueled him like the chugging of his train, driving him forward while the rest of the world was slipping backwards by just one of his commands. 

The world had stopped. Word had reached other investors, large and small, and the next day he heard the ringing bell that alerted a crisis. His warning had done the trick. People were panicking, selling shares to hoard whatever wealth they could in order to combat the possibility of a hold out. The Tyrells themselves had withdrawn nearly forty percent of all the companies they held stock in, padding their savings in case their grain and tobacco could not be shipped and a significant part of the crop would be lost. 

Tywin felt no fear. For years he had built his horde, off the books and in his pocket. If there was anyone that could stay fat during the famine, it was he. And everyone knew it. Tywin Lannister was not a man to play chicken with, as he had the endurance for a long game. 

And now that people were selling in a panic, his brokers were instructed to buy up anything and everything they could, regardless of the company or the commerce. He bought small barrel manufacturers, paper mills, lumberyards, patent finance offices, textile factories, and tobacco fields. With his long arms and wide reach, he scooped up whatever he could and shoved them into his accounts. Tywin a puppeteer disguised as a savior, the halo being held above by his own strings.

Sansa had been kept busy with receipts from the brokers and she had been instructed to keep a list. Graphite was a savior, as she was constantly rubbing rubber against the page to make changes with each passing second. It had been chaotic, hectic to say the least, but through that chaos Tywin had noticed something in her. Something enthusiastic. Her eyes flashed this way and that in the flurry of the shuffling papers and yelps of the trading floor. Her fingers clutched at the documents tightly and her lips moved with the ever changing market. It was as if Sansa Stark was in a trance-like state of proficiency, the numbers filling her head and flipping the switch of hunger. She was consumed by the figures and the game as she stood by Tywin’s side, the first taste of true power wetting her lips and rushing straight to her head. 

Tywin could still remember the same rush he had felt his first time. 

The moment had come for Ms. Stark to see who he was and what he was capable of. As he growled and paced, commanding the runners, he could feel her eyes upon him and Tywin felt static tingle in their wake. He had caught her staring once or twice, blue meeting green before flashing away quickly while he openly stared back, fearless. The rush made him feel like a much younger man and he could feel the other men’s eyes look to his assistant when they should be looking at his money. Possessiveness created a great and black maw within him and he consumed everything he could. Having enough of the glances, Tywin slunk closer to Ms. Stark until he could feel her accidentally brush against him as she moved to take notes of the board. 

The brokers looked away when they saw him loom over Sansa Stark, unnoticed by her as she gazed at the board and lost herself in the trades. He eyed them warningly, jaw set and gaze hardened into emeralds. 

The pit wanted more. 

Now, in the wake of his glory, he was looking out his window, the one that faced the balcony of the room next door. He held wine, the deep red liquid looking black as it sat cradled in his hand. Swirling it absentmindedly, Tywin’s head cocked with the spotting of movement outside. In the low lamplight of the streets he could see Sansa leave her room, the flutter of her long nightdress catching his eyes as if she were a ghost. Throat going dry, Tywin watched with rapt attention as the woman gathered her skirts and sunk to the tiled floor, her chin resting upon her folded arms. She looked pensively through the balustrades. 

Unblinking, he stared at her red hair as it was naturally, loose waves spilling over her shoulders like a cloak. The soft look of the strands made his palm itch. He was careful to not make any sudden movement in the darkness of his room, stirring slowly and languidly only when he wanted more wine. He swore he could see her shiver from the light breeze and he found his eyes trained on where her breasts were hidden behind her knees. Tywin wanted to see if her nipples had hardened. 

Normally, he would not have been so brash. He would’ve averted his eyes out of common courtesy, even though his presence was unknown to her. But that night Tywin had been intoxicated by his own appetite and the want and he openly indulged in watching her, taking her form greedily in his gaze and letting his mind roam. 

Tywin wanted to stand and tap on the window. He wanted Sansa to know she had been seen by him this way, vulnerable and natural. She would meet his eyes through the window and then she would lift her skirts and he would openly gaze upon the one thing that he did not buy. If only she knew how much he was burning for her at this moment. 

Licking the wine from his lips, Tywin set the glass down, his eyes not leaving her. He watched as her soft heels slid from her body slightly, her legs pushing outwards in a lazy bend at the knee. From his position he could almost see the gap between them but the light was too low for him to visually consume what was between her legs. 

Tywin wanted to crawl to her, take her hips in his large hands and lay on his belly in order to push his head between her thighs. He wondered if she would pull at his hair while he tasted her. What name or title would escape her lips? A breathy “Mr. Lannister…?” Or perhaps maybe even a “Sir?”

The thought of her holding onto his titles and propriety made his cock stir, his dominance would escape from her submissive lips and he would show her what true power could do, how good it could feel. 

This level of open indulgence had been long wanted, which made it challenging for him to stop. Tywin rarely thought of women, save for his past wife, finding that he would rather use his brain for business. He had been acting in a daze for years, only looking at what had become routine. She was a breath of fresh air and Tywin inhaled through his nose, wanting more. 

Pressing against his trousers, he willed the woman to go back inside, out of his sight. He would not touch himself with her there, unknowing of his eyes. He was a Great Lion, not a deviant one. But Gods, did he want to. The burning of his body lamented at his refusal for release. Tywin yearned to think of her, to have the control of his own imagination arch her back and tighten her legs around his own skull. He wanted to grip that hair, see his fingers buried in the red as if he were washing his hands in the blood of everyone who had ever doubted him.

As if she had the power to read minds, Sansa stirred, sat up straighter and dropped her arms so her palms rested on the smooth tile. He could see the slight peaks of her breasts beneath the night dress and his hunger roared, gnashed its teeth as if he were a young man again. Tywin forced his eyes back to her pretty face, glowing in its elegant profile by the lamplight of the city. 

With ice shooting through him, Tywin watched as Sansa’s head suddenly turned and looked keenly through the window and to him. He froze, heart beating heavily with the threat of being found out. Could she see him? Could it be possible that he was not as hidden as he had originally thought? 

Stiffening in his chair, Tywin’s breath hitched as the woman refused to look away. Instead, she stood, slowly and deliberately, reaching up and sweeping her hair to the side. He roamed hungrily up and down her body, imagining that he could see right through the thin cotton. Trailing his eyes upwards, he gazed at the ivory smooth lines of her neck and jaw, strong and soft and his mouth went dry once more. Through the glass of the window Sansa’s eyes were meeting directly with his and with a sinking stomach he knew that she could see him sitting secluded in the shadows like some sort of old ghoul. 

Then, without a word or emotion, she glided back into her room and out of sight. 

Tywin released a sigh, equal parts electrified and embarrassed by being caught. There had been no shock on her face, no disgust. He wondered what she had been thinking as she stood before him, exposed but not fully bare. Had it excited her? If he had been a stupider man, he would’ve left his room, gone next door and pounded his lust through her door. But no, he was not stupid. 

Downing his wine, he moved to the water closet, hovering over the basin in the dark while he supported himself against the mirror mounted to the wall, uncaring of his palm against the glass. His breath came in heavy pants and he worked himself intensely, eyes squinted shut as he thought about her long elegant fingers trailing down his chest or reaching in and being suckled by his mouth. Tywin panted with her in his imagination, felt her hot breath on his neck. The stale taste of the wine on his tongue was replaced with what he imagined her center tasted of, heady and real. 

When he finally spilled his seed, Tywin had imagined her worshipping him, truly and utterly, as he ruled the world with her by his side. 

Exhaustion found him then, hunched and panting in the receding tide of his own self defilement. He cleaned in the basin, stripped off the rest of his clothes, and moved to the bed, naked and uncaring of his lack of bedclothes. He was stull pleasantly numb in the climax of both himself and the excitement of the trading floor. 

The Old Lion decided to deal with the guilt in the morning. For now, he content to dream of money and blue eyes. 


	14. 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!   
> Hope you enjoy this one, we have an explicit content warning. Also, rest easy, Littlefinger has not been forgotten, next chapter we will find out just what exactly happens to him. There will be an added not at the bottom to avoid spoilers!  
> Please enjoy!   
> -J

Tyrion rarely seethed in the presence of his siblings, choosing instead to hide behind his nonchalance and quips. Or, better yet, Tyrion preferred to be around them as little as possible. History had proven his sister to be quite venomous and it took no time at all for her to turn her own criticism into toxic jabs and insults.

Which was what the poor man was dealing with that late morning at brunch and he was finding it harder and harder to keep his mouth shut. Cersei, Joffrey, Jaime, and he were all seated in the sunroom with a lovely spread of breakfast food and fruit. The only thing that suggested it was a brunch was the fact that all of them had overslept and only now managed to shuffle out into the world in search of food. The door to the sunroom was propped open to enjoy the breeze that swooped in from the back patio.

“Can’t prove it was us,” Joffrey was drawling, haughtily unaware of just how blatant his attack was on the poor girl. 

Tyrion chewed, “Oh, dear nephew. While you are convinced of your cleverness you have some catching up to do.” 

“Shut up,” Cersei snapped. She had touched none of her toast or eggs, instead choosing on the champagne and juice. “Why does it matter?” 

“It matters to father, obviously.” 

His sentence was rewarded with a bitter hiccup of a laugh. Cersei turned to her son, the two of them finding mean delight in Tyrion’s words. 

“You’ve never cared about what matters to him. You brought a whore in here, remember?” 

Bristling, Tyrion thought of Shae, hidden away in the laundresses workshop, churning the soapy water against the tangled sheets, tablecloths, and drapery. She had not been happy, but she was still here, earning in secret. She was still content enough to slip up into his chambers most nights, which was the biggest gamble of them all. 

Jaime watched the japes leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think she deserved what she got,” he offered. Cersei’s hard eyes stung him like wasps. 

“What?” 

“Manure on her bed? All of her possessions destroyed? A threat left in her bible? Seems overkill, that’s all,” he shrugged. 

“Why is everyone so protective of a Northern bitch?” Joffrey asked, tossing down his silverware like a pouting child. Tyrion winced at the insult, which he noticed. “Well she is! Treated me like I was some…some….”

“Kid?” Tyrion offered, not looking at his nephew. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Cersei interrupted haughtily. “She’s gone.” 

This time both Jaime and Tyrion looked to her in subtle disbelief. “What?” Jaime asked. 

Cersei took a long drink of citrus and bubbles, “She’s gone. We’ve seen no sign of her and the house up the way has a ‘room to let’ sign. We saw it on our way into town, didn’t we, love?” 

Joffrey’s eyes glinted excitedly and he nodded. 

Sharing a glance between them, the two brothers tried to decide which one of them had to share the news that would surely be the match to her powder keg. Tyrion pleaded with his eyes, widening them to show that it would truthfully be the end of the world if it was he that had to speak next. Jaime narrowed his, knowing he was right. 

“Um…Cersei,” he said cautiously, “She’s not gone. Have you not heard?” 

She suddenly became very still. “What? Heard from who?” 

“Clegane,” Tyrion said. He would not leave Jaime to do all the work. 

Joffrey wrinkled his nose, “Why would we talk to him?” 

“Because then maybe you would know what’s been going on in the wake of your little warning, nephew.” 

Cersei wasn’t looking away from Jaime. He gave a longing, yet brief, look at his unfinished breakfast and knew that with the news about to come it would be cut short. 

“Father sent Clegane to the apartment, which was how we knew about what happened even before Joffrey started speaking openly about it.” 

“Unwise move, by the way,” Tyrion grunted into his chalice. 

Jaime ignored him. “Father’s brought her here. She’s staying here and is under the protection of Clegane, Swyft, and Payne.” 

Heart sinking and mouth going dry, Cersei managed to ask, “Which room?” 

“Not father’s, if that’s what you’re concerned with,” Tyrion replied, watching the changes within her. The reassurance and pride were slipping away with each passing word and she had grown ashen. Funny…he would’ve expected anger to turn rosy on her cheeks and neck. 

“But what of the desk? All of her belongings? They are all gone.” 

Jaime and Tyrion shared a look once more and that’s when the anger flared red in her eyes. 

“Per Clegane,” Jaime said, leaning away from her, “she’s on special instruction to work from the inside of father’s office.” 

The crystal was threatening to shatter in Cersei’s tight grip. Her original thought that Stark had quit had proven to be quite wrong and she was quickly connecting the dots. “Father is still gone?” 

Tyrion tossed his head back and held up his arms in exasperation. “Honestly, sister, you strut around demanding to be a part of this family, yet you have no idea just what goes on outside of your little circle.” 

“He should be arriving tonight, or tomorrow morning. But he brought Ms. Stark with to King’s Landing,” Jaime quickly said before Cersei could react to Tyrion’s criticism. 

The two of them, just the two of them. Together. 

Joffrey was looking to his mother with eyes as wide as dinner plates, his mouth slack in disbelief. “He can’t do that, mother!” 

“Yes he can,” she let slip through her clenched teeth. “He thinks he can do whatever he wants.” 

“He thinks he can?” Tyrion asked his enraged sister, uncaring if he was jabbing his little fingers into the lioness’s side, “he knows he can!” 

“He doesn’t see the danger he is causing this family!” she yowled, rounding on him. “She is the daughter of an enemy, of a competitor!” 

“I trust that father has weighed these options,” Jaime offered, “he’s no stranger to this.” 

Cersei turned on him now, “He’s getting old, Jaime. And she’s got a pretty face. Who knows what she’s been up to in order to get into his books?” 

“Are you accusing Ms. Stark of seducing our father?” Tyrion asked. He thought of his beautiful Shae sitting at the desk. She had a pretty face and she was fired without question. 

The thought of it was sticky and rotten in her throat and Cersei didn’t want to say it aloud, so she confirmed the suspicion with her own silence. 

“Our father isn’t the seduced type.” 

“Any man can be, Jaime,” Cersei murmured quietly while her son looked upon his breakfast with pinched disgust. “This country was built by what is in men’s pockets and between women’s legs.” 

Tense silence hung about the group, the green tinted glass of the sunroom providing luscious heat and Jaime moved his head, stretching out the muscles. Tyrion swung his feet in his chair. “I challenge you this, sister,” he finally said, “besides the jealousy, why do you care what father is up to beneath his sheets after business hours?” 

“Why would you not care?” Cersei snarled. “A strange girl of a competitor swoops in here and within days she has inserted herself beneath his skin. And now he’s brought her into our home and into his office. We know nothing of her!” 

“You seemed not to mind her during Joffrey’s birthday weekend” Jaime said in a poor planned attempt to reassure his sister. 

“Be quiet, Jaime.” 

Tyrion spoke again. “It’s foolish to think that he would allow anyone to trick him in that way. He is one of the most suspicious people I know. That we all know. So, being aware of his caution, shouldn’t we allow him to indulge once in a while? The poor man hasn’t had a woman since-”

He was interrupted by a short and solid whack to his arm by Jaime. 

“What do we do, mother?” Joffrey asked, suddenly fearful. He felt deflated knowing that he and his little gang had been unable to get rid of her. If his grandfather had now moved her in…well that didn’t bode well for him at all. Even he knew that. 

Cersei put on a mask for her son. She turned to him with a kind face and reached out to place her palm on his cheek. “I don’t know, sweetheart, but we will think of something.” 

Tyrion was not hungry anymore and he looked to Jaime, who seemed just as unsure. Out of the two of them, Jaime was the only one that Tyrion felt any sort of familial bond with. However, he had learned long ago that he would never be prioritized first, no matter how much sense he made. Jaime would always and without question stay on his sister’s side. Which caused a problem in times like these. Cersei was going to do something, something either brash and stupid or conniving and sinister. 

And he didn’t think he would want to be around when their father found out. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

The first couple hours of the train ride back had been quiet. The train bringing them back was the only of his that was actually moving through the country, chugging along miles of unshared rail. Tywin was sitting in one of the lounge chairs of the bar car, facing the bar and the hunched form of Sansa stark perched atop a tall stool. The car was warm and he had removed his suitcoat and sat in his waistcoat and shirt, gold watch chain dangling from his pockets. She had papers and receipts scattered about the bar top and Tywin watched as she would take one, study it and write in the ledger before placing it on a pile on the other side of her. Lannister watched her openly. 

When he had woken that morning he was expecting the wave of guilt to come crashing over him, yet he felt nothing. The hunger was still there, weakened to become a whining little black hole until he found something else he wanted. It was a familiar feeling and he cherished it as he washed his face and got ready for the long trip back home. Tywin Lannister remembered feeling like this at his peak many years ago and it was invigorating to be inching back to the man he had been. 

“What are you doing?” he finally asked after the silence got to be boring. 

“Organizing,” she replied without turning around. “For easy reference.” 

“How are you doing that?” 

“Alphabetically,” she finally turned, “unless you prefer by share size.” 

Tywin shrugged and appreciated her answer. “You will be the one referencing them, Ms. Stark, so whatever you decide.” 

She turned back around. For most of the morning Tywin had been trying to decide if Sansa was being icy towards him. It had become hard to tell and it chewed away at him, nibbling like some sort of little, suspicious mouse. He had never once worried that he had upset someone before and it was a new feeling, one he didn’t quite care for. However, realistically, she could just be preoccupied with the amount of work she now had with all of the new purchases. It was not her job to crunch the numbers thoroughly, that will be left for his accountants back in the city. But, Sansa would need to be familiar with all of them and what he owned now and that could be tricky if the information was not correctly catalogued. 

After all, Tywin mused while he swirled a glass of afternoon wine, she hadn’t covered herself from him. She hadn’t looked at him with fear or embarrassment, hunching over and drawing into herself before she darted back inside last night. She had taken her time and he was now positive that she had seen him watching. 

Yet the Old Lion still could not be sure of her feelings. Out of character, she had helped herself to a glass of wine without asking, sipping it rarely to wet her lips while she worked. Tywin sniffed, swallowed and dipped his head to stare at the legs of her barstool while he thought of exactly what to say. Her legs were crossed beneath her long skirt and her hair was gathered up, a spare pencil sticking from the strands. 

“Are you upset with me, Ms. Stark?” he finally asked, his voice rumbling through the car. 

There was a pause. She stopped writing and thoughtfully set down her pen before she turned in her stool, arm draped across the bar. Her posture was slightly slummed with the lack of a backrest on the stool. Sansa regarded him, her face expressionless before she reached for her glass. 

“Why would I be upset with you, Mr. Lannister?” she asked, sipping. 

She would not look away and Tywin’s brow shot down into a furrow, narrowing his eyes. Was this a challenge? A game? Her voice held no venom, yet it held no playfulness. It was flat, polite, her professional voice and he took a long while to regard her words. Tywin wondered if her mask was on, hiding away the girl he had seen last night behind Ms. Stark. If she was playing with him, trying to get him to convince to something, he didn’t appreciate it nor did he have the patience for it. 

People didn’t play games with Tywin Lannister. Tactics would be switched. He was not one to tiptoe and she was trying to make him do just that. Instead he stood, watched as her eyes quickly fluttered shut in a blink before meeting his again. He walked to the bar and seated himself onto a stool next to her, the foot of her crossed leg near his shin.

“Did you enjoy your stay in the city?” 

She turned back to her work, picked up the pen and tried to look upon her ledger. However, and she wondered if this had been by design, when she turned the toe of her shoe brushed against the Great Lion’s leg and she found it nearly impossible to ignore the small contact. Staring blankly at the paper, Sansa became quite nervous. She thought of spotting the concealed form of Tywin Lannister, partially visible in the dim light as he lounged in a chair, his eyes on her. Like a lion watching a gazelle from the underbrush. The shadows had indulged themselves in the handsome lines of his face, making him seem even more intimidating and enigmatic and Sansa had felt frozen like a deer once she had seen him. Her fingers itched with uncharacteristic want to pull up her nightdress, show him more of her and see if he would react at all. The poor girl had lain awake for the rest of the dark hours, obsessing over Tywin’s sharp green eyes and his booming voice. 

Sansa felt as if she had been controlled by Tywin’s very thoughts. 

That is, if he was thinking of her that way at all. Perhaps he was observing her to be reckless, a voyeur and exhibitionist that was excited by treading out at night so boldly in her underclothes. Tywin undoubtedly valued her professionalism and now she felt doubtful of herself and her interpretation of their hidden exchange. Were the eyes angry? Could disappointment truly be mistaken for lust? Sansa was young and experienced after all…how could she be sure that he had wanted to see her in that way? Complications did not make anybody’s job easier. There was a possibility that he was testing her, asking if she enjoyed her stay as a sort of double meaning in order to segue into reprimanding her for her rashness. 

She had already made up her mind to argue if Tywin Lannister felt anger towards her…she was simply trying to get some fresh air from the stress. She had no idea it was his room right next to hers. 

But now Tywin was so very close to her, watching her just as intently as he had in the night. Mr. Lannister was complicating her thoughts as if he was picking at the cracks of her, pulling apart a space so that he could settle inside. Sansa had never felt eyes on her so intensely. They felt like a magnet and her chest was made of metal, pulling her. 

“I enjoyed my stay very much, Mr. Lannister.” 

He straightened on his stool. His voice was barely a murmur. “What did you enjoy?” 

Sansa could smell his aftershave, citrus and sandalwood. 

“Seeing you work,” she managed. She wrote down the name of a sheep ranch in the wrong place, the letters not aligning with the rest of the column alphabetically. It had been her one mistake in the long column. 

“Perhaps you should take a break, Ms. Stark.” 

Swallowing, Sansa capped her pen. Then, pursing her lips, she blew softly to dry the ink before closing the ledger. She took a drink of wine.

“I liked seeing you work, Mr. Lannister,” she said again, looking ahead at the polished bottles behind the bar. “It was just as I had read about.” 

Pride bloomed in him and he felt himself grow hot. The mistake had been endearing and confidence came quickly with the pride. That pit in his stomach began to grow and he thought again of the way the other men in the bullpen watched her. Even in the flurry of their chaos they had managed to gawk at her beauty and Tywin had seen it fully last night. Before, she was pretty and polite. But ever since the two of them had set foot on this trip together Tywin was able to see her without her disguise and the fiery intelligence acted as a catalyst to his want. 

She was young, stunning and very, very smart. And she had lingered for him. He, Tywin Lannister. 

Powerful men had powerful appetites and Tywin was just grateful that his had returned. 

“Were you intimidated by the trading floor?” he asked, cocking his head to study her profile. She had a very straight nose and her cheekbones were high, but not grotesquely so. Tywin looked at her lips while they parted so she could speak. 

“No.” 

Tywin’s mouth twitched. “You’re a brave girl, then.” 

“Not as brave as you think, Mr. Lannister.” 

He finished his wine and set it on the bar top. Tapping his thumb idly on the lacquered wood he murmured, “Oh, I don’t know about that…you seemed quite brave last night.” 

There, it was out in the open. The elephant had reared its big head in the now small and suffocating cabin, watching the two of them with dark and curious eyes. Sansa felt herself blanch, first feeling the cold ice shooting through her before it welled to the heat of embarrassment. The air crackled as she felt him lean towards her, sliding his arm down the surface of the bar. His tall frame interrupted her space and stole away her air. The bottles could not hold her attention any longer and Sansa turned to him, brushing up against his leg once more. Even though they were both seated Tywin seemed to tower above her. She looked to his chest, the way the expensive tan suit hugged his body, then back up to his white-blonde hair and bristled jaw. She watched the muscles of his jaw tighten and there was something new in his eyes, not rage or determination or even disappointment. They had darkened and Sansa thought of the shadows. 

Tywin had not felt this excited since his wife and for a moment he nearly winced, her blonde curls and warm body stirring something that was closer to guilt than desire. However, the pit consumed it, silenced it as if it were nothing more than a canary in a cage resting beneath a blanket. It would not be ignored. Sansa Stark was not leaning away from him, quite the opposite. She did not seem fearful and he longed to touch the blushed skin of her neck.

But was she responding because she wanted him genuinely? Or was she just another person persuaded by Tywin Lannister’s power? 

In truth and in this moment, it mattered not to him. He stood, pushing the stool backwards. His arm still rested on the bar top, papers and receipts pushed to the side. 

“I will ask you again, Ms. Stark,” he asked, impossibly close to her and his voice nearly a growl. “did I upset you?” 

It was so hard to resist looking at her body, even though it was hidden beneath her skirt and blouse. Green eyes managed to stay trained on blue, emeralds sinking beneath ocean waves. He could see how her pupils had dilated. Sansa knew exactly what Tywin had asked. It wasn’t a general question about his harsh personality or demanding presence. He was allowing her to address the fact that he had watched her when she had been less than decent. 

Then, as if the angels above had started to sing praise, Sansa Stark uncrossed her legs. 

“No, Mr. Lannister,” she murmured through wine-painted lips. “I was not upset.” 

Reaching for her and clamping his strong hand at the back of her neck, Tywin pulled her to him, his mouth crashing onto hers. His mind was blank, empty to every thought but claiming her, winning. He felt her hands on his waist, searching and cautious and he growled into her mouth. Emboldened by Sansa opening her mouth to him he reached down with his free hand and started to pull up the long skirt. 

Sansa was lost in the grinding of his bristled skin against hers. The great Tywin Lannister was kissing her with fervor, a ferocity that electrified every nerve and made heat pool between her legs. No man had ever claimed her like this, only boys and their fumbling and nervous hands. Big talk followed by less than satisfying results. But Tywin was a whole different breed. He had spoken little, the few words he had chosen creating a tension that Sansa had been breathlessly waiting to snap. The Great Lion took from her what he wanted, thus in turn fueling her desire to be coveted and desired. 

His lips travelled across her skin before licking the spot just below her ear near her jaw. Searing heat traveled in its wake and a small moan escaped from her lips. He paused, listened to hear what she would call him, but when no words came Tywin growled again against her skin and pulled away. Her lips had plumped from the kissing and she seemed out of breath. 

“Let your hair down,” Tywin ordered, removing is hand from the back of her neck. He took the skirt in both hands and lifted, his eyes only breaking for hers to watch as she reached up and began to remove the pins. By the time her locks tumbled down her back and around her face he had hitched the skirt up to where his fingertips could lightly touch the expose skin of her thighs above her stockings. “Thank you, Ms. Stark,” he hummed before boldly pushing his hands further up her thighs. 

Sansa gasped when he took hold of her legs and gently spun the stool so that she could rest her back against the bar. She squirmed on her seat when Tywin leaned forward, hands circling down to the back of her thighs and lifting her legs up and further apart while he pressed himself between them in order to kiss her again. Strong hands gripping her thighs made her moan once more into Tywin’s mouth. Boldly, he pulled her to him, pressing his abdomen on either side with her legs. Pure lust and hunger were fueling him and he wanted to roar. 

He pulled away again, his face hovering near hers. “Take off your underclothes, Ms. Stark.” 

Panting, she pushed herself away from him on the barstool and reached up with her hands, untying the lace ribbon of her smallclothes. The propriety of him still calling her Ms. Stark seemed so wicked, but she undeniably shivered in delight when the orders escaped his lips. It seemed to make him grow larger than what could even be contained in the train car. 

“Yes, Mr. Lannister,” she replied and he was watching her with hunger in his eyes when she moved the simple garment down. She blushed from embarrassment as she felt the leather bar stool against her bare skin, still partially covered by her skirts. 

“Stop,” Tywin ordered when she neared her stockings. She did as commanded. He then reached up and took them in his hands, pulling them down fully. She watched as Tywin held her smallclothes for a moment, thumb trailing along the ribbons, before he folded the garment up and tucked it in his back pocket. 

“You are to no longer wear underclothes in my office,” Tywin instructed as plainly as if he had just ordered her to rephrase a sentence in a letter. “Is that understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Tywin’s hands returned to her thighs and he pushed them upwards, all the way to her juncture. She felt searching and cautious thumbs brush against her soft hair. Then they neared her slit and Tywin watched her eyes close when he pressed the pad of it against her sensitive nub. The smallest of devious smiles itched at the corners of his lips and he swirled his thumb. She leaned back against the bar. 

“Have you ever been touched by a man before, Ms. Stark?” 

Sansa’s eyes were closed as she felt the sensations of his searching hands. “Not by men, Mr. Lannister. Boys.” 

Her answer delighted him and he moved away, withdrawing from her heat. Her eyes snapped open and he watched her gaze up at him, pleading and disappointed. 

Coming to stand at Sansa’s side, Tywin extended his arm behind her, thumb lazily moving up and down her arm. Leaning into him and pressing her forehead against the side of his neck beneath his chin, Sansa boldly planted a kiss to the sensitive skin there. Finally, she was rewarded with a moan. 

“You’re a hungry little thing, aren’t you?” he hummed as he moved beneath her skirts again with his other hand. This new positioning allowed him to touch her with his index finger. Deftly and lightly, he rubbed her and felt the wetness grow between her legs. He doubted the boys could make her this wet. 

“Does it feel good?” he growled close to her, “Being touched by a man who knows what he’s doing?” 

“Yes,” Sansa breathed and her breath felt hot against his skin. 

The arm around her tightened and he dipped his mouth to kiss her heatedly as he pushed his finger deeper inside of her channel. He felt her walls tighten with her breath. He was losing himself in the feeling of her soaking his skin and he had grown impossibly hard in his trousers. To his surprise, Sansa had managed to slip her hand between them and her palm pressed against the form of his cock. 

There was no stopping. The pieces have been set in motion and there was nothing he could do. 

Coming around to her front, Tywin dropped to his knees, reaching across her behind and pulling her to his awaiting mouth. He drank the new power and strength from her as if he had been a man thirsting away in the desolate desert that was his own complacency. She said his name for the first time when he lashed her clit with his tongue. It sounded like the gospel songs of victory, chants that spurred him onwards. 

Tywin felt Sansa’s thighs press against his ears and he took great languid laps at her, making her moan his name once more. This was his. He was going to make this woman feel such pleasure that she would never even remotely consider betraying him. Tywin pushed apart her thighs to expose more of her delicate flesh that was waiting to be tasted. 

With each pass of his tongue across her skin Sansa felt fire. It was growing deep in her center and part of her almost became too sensitive to his ministrations, wishing to squirm away. But the longer she stayed the more pleasure she felt. When he widened her and resumed licking she had nearly gone wild. Tywin took her into his mouth, kissing her as he had her lips, and she suddenly felt something intense and primal start to well in her groin. Searching fingers curled themselves into his hair and she was unafraid to grip at him, hold him close and beg for him to make that same motion once more. 

“Please, Mr. Lannister,” Sansa managed. 

He obliged and continued, releasing a quiet groan into her. Continuing to build, the feeling suddenly made her tighten as if she were going to break, shatter into a million pieces. Suddenly and without warning, she climaxed for the first time in her life. Eyes squinting shut, Sansa bucked against Tywin’s mouth and she could only vaguely feel the pain of his gripping hands, holding her steady on the stool. His lips had slowed while she rode the sensations on his tongue. 

Tywin Lannister boldly wiped her pleasure from his mouth with an expensive sleeve. He was working at the buckle of his belt and the buttons of his trousers while Sansa leaned back against the bar, panting in the wake of what he had just done to her. He cared not of his waistcoat and shirt, but he was emboldened when she reached for him and attempted to undo the buttons. 

“Come here,” Tywin grunted as he reached down and pulled her so that her buttocks were resting on the very edge of the stool. Her arms were extended along the bar for balance. She gasped when she felt the head of his cock press against her slicked entrance. 

“Are you a virgin, Ms. Stark?” he asked, watching her closely. 

She shook her head, “No.” 

She seemed embarrassed, ashamed even, a momentary break in her pleasure. “Good,” he said, bringing her back to him. “I want you to see what men can do.” 

He watched as the young woman bit at her lip in anticipation and he pressed himself into her, his cock sliding slowly inside. She was so blasted tight, squeezing like a vice. “Gods,” Tywin grunted, his mind blank to everything else but her and the feeling of her heat around his skin. 

With Tywin fully inside of her, Sansa’s head tipped backwards. He was large, larger than anything she had before, yet she felt no discomfort. She had been wanting for so long that her body had become eager for him. Wrapping his arms around her back, Tywin assisted in supporting her as he slowly withdrew before thrusting into her. She yelped and he smiled, eyes glinting hungrily. He wished that he had undone her blouse so that he may gaze at even more of her, but he had no patience for the complications of women’s clothing. 

“Do you like this?” he asked, thrusting again and panting against the delectable little yelping noise she had made once more. “Do you like getting fucked by Tywin Lannister? Tell me.” 

“Yes, sir,” she could only gasp. 

The questions were like kerosene, fueling him by stroking his ego as he felt the pleasure of Sansa’s body. Hearing her answers tantalized his mind while his body bucked against hers. He was greedy, gripping her to him while he thrusted with more force. Soon he was nearing the edge himself, moving with ardent intensity. She seemed to find pleasure in his increased speed, moaning his name once again as if it was the only thought in her head. Lannister craved that to be true, he wanted to be the only thing that Sansa Stark could think about. 

“Tywin…gods!” 

He wanted to bite her, mark her from the rest of the world as his. 

Just like he had the other night, Tywin spilled his seed more violently than he had in years past, the sensation and the relief shaking him and making him loudly snarl like an animal. 

The two of were panting in the wake of what they had just done, Sansa’s legs loosening around his hips and his fingertips trailing away from their grips on her skin. He slipped from her easily and suddenly Sansa felt very messy and embarrassed. Tywin moved away from her and she sat frozen to the spot on her stool, fearful of what would happen if she dared move. 

Tywin disappeared to the back water closet and Sansa’s eyes darted about, searching for a napkin or anything to use. Suddenly, he reappeared, tucked back into his trousers and running a hand over his hair to smooth it. Tywin neared her, a moistened towel in his hand. He stood before her, looked upon her flushed cheeks. 

“Lift up your skirts, Ms. Stark,” he instructed evenly, reaching out to touch her knee. Watching him very closely, Sansa paused. Her self-consciousness returned with the abrupt levelheadedness that followed passion and she suddenly did not want him to look at her bare and exposed parts. “Ms. Stark…” he said, his voice itching on impatience. 

Finally, she did as instructed, closing her eyes so she couldn’t see him look upon her. Cool water found her body, clean and plush. Tywin wiped at her with the rag, cleaning gently. Her eyes opened when he leaned forward and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her to her feet with care. Tywin then wiped the surface of the stool. He pulled the other stool next to her and held out his palm. 

“I’m sorry to have interrupted your work, Ms. Stark. Hopefully I have not set you back too far and you can find your place.” 

She stared at him, confused by his words. He was smiling softly at her and Sansa could just barely decipher mere traces of what they had just done in the avid way that he watched her. 

“Thank you, Mr. Lannister,” was the only thing she could think to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was quite a challenge. And while I hope some of you don't feel as if it was too fast moving, I was hoping to rely on the fact that heightened and stressful environments (like dominating the stock market and shutting down the country) feeds into passionate moments like that. 
> 
> My version of Tywin Lannister is a talker, spoken words adds depth to his "interactions" and its a sort of turn-on for him...at least I like to pretend it is. It just seems to me that such a powerful man has certain things that he likes. And yes, I know it may be cheesy, but I'm enjoying playing in the dominant roll of Tywin. He's not going to be intimate and vulnerable right away. I've only ever written a handful of these types of scenes so I hope I haven't lost you guys!
> 
> thank you for your patience in my notes!  
> Lots of love - J


	15. 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Guys!  
> First off, major trigger warning for violence. It's not the worst scene I've written or seen, but still...a warning doesn't hurt!  
> Also, some bad news. Unfortunately my chapters are going to slow down. For my job I have an exam coming up for a new qualification/certification class (i work in forensics and investigations). So, as much as I would love to just crank out chapters, I need to prioritize my time to study. No worries, it won't be permanent!  
> Again, thank you all for the comments, likes, and reads. It seems so cheesy for me to tell you all how much I appreciate you, but you're all truly amazing!  
> Lots of love  
> -J

Sansa had heard her father speak of cards and their players, how they could hide their emotions and thoughts beneath masks made of their own flesh. Yet she had never fully understood what he meant. Surely it was just an exaggeration of composure, nothing more. But now, as she stared at the side of Tywin Lannister’s face as they disembarked, she understood. She now knew what a poker face truly was.

It was a gift, a talent. Hard earned and practiced. 

It was as if Tywin had been made of stone. Impassive and calm, he stood at the Casterly Station, now abandoned with the lack of other trains and passengers. Clegane had begun to approach in a carriage, grander than the buggy that he used to take Sansa to and from work. Mouth dry, Sansa realized that they would be riding together, alone in the cab. 

Clegane slid down from the driver’s bench and opened the door before he began to take their luggage to the back. Sansa climbed in, looking at the ground as she moved, for she did not trust herself to hide her thoughts. She sat and thought, waiting for Tywin to follow her. Her heart jumped with beats, both excited and nervous. She wondered if he would speak at all of what they had just done. 

Sansa surprised herself when she realized she felt no regret. 

But she faltered when the door shut behind her and she could see Tywin speaking with Clegane, his face impassive yet his eyes glinted dangerously, the only betrayal of what he was truly feeling. Heart sinking she wondered if it was her they were speaking of. How close did Mr. Lannister hold his right-hand man? Close enough to share secrets of his personal life? 

After about five minutes or so, Tywin finally opened up the door and climbed in, his tall frame hunched. With the snorting of horses, the carriage started to roll towards the estate. The two sat in silence, Sansa feeling much more awkward than he seemed to be. The quiet would be interrupted only by a sniff or the metallic click of his pocket watch. Sansa tried to listen to the clop of hooves as Clegane urged them forward. 

Then, in a quiet and low murmur, Tywin spoke. “I trust that this trip will not act as a distraction. I still have quite high expectations of you.” He was looking at her, regarding her as she turned away from the window. 

“Of course not, Mr. Lannister. No distractions.” 

Tywin felt the lump of her underclothes wadded in his pocket and he smiled inwardly. “Good.” 

He seemed pleased with her and she felt warmth spread through her body, pushing out the awkwardness she had felt before. The brief and gripping memory of Tywin’s hand clamped on her thighs threatened to make her blush so she turned her attention back out the window. The blush deepened when she remembered that she was exposed beneath her skirts and she shifted in her seat, feeling Tywin’s eyes on her. She was desperate for something else to think about in order to weaken her blush. When they eventually passed the building she had only briefly stayed at, Sansa swallowed back the urge to look up to the attic window. 

Two men were waiting for them in the carriage port. One was recognizable to Sansa. Before their trip to the city, he had sat on the stool while Clegane had been resting. She connected the dots and assumed that they were there for her, not Mr. Lannister. Her request for added protection was being noted. 

“I will not need you for the rest of the evening, Ms. Stark,” Tywin said once they both left the carriage and were standing in the cool evening air. “Mr. Payne and Mr. Swift will bring up your luggage. You can send for a meal if you like.” 

She gave a nod, glancing to Payne and Swyft. “I will see you tomorrow morning, Mr. Lannister.” 

Tywin provided her a curt nod as he watched the two men load up her bags before they all three went inside. His eyes lingered on the back of her head and her copper tresses, darkened in the weakening light. He hoped she had the sense to just stay in her room for the evening, but he felt eased knowing that Clegane’s men will be keeping watch on her. In their haste, Tywin had not thought about his children and how his quick departure with Ms. Stark would be interpreted. True…he had shamelessly indulged in the woman, undoubtedly fulfilling the assumptions of his daughter. 

However it was different. It had been fuel, kerosene. No softening of his heart, just the invigoration of his ambition. 

Clegane cleared his throat and Tywin turned to him. 

“Are you going to change?” he asked. 

Tywin thought a moment, looking down and regarding the light fabrics of his suit. “No.” he finally decided. “No.” 

Clegane shrugged. “Fair enough.” He then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigar and matchbook. “Forgive me for assuming, but I figured you would be craving one of these tonight.” 

Tywin took the cigar and thanked him. 

Then, much unlike what he was used to, Tywin Lannister climbed up into the front bench of the carriage, Sandor doing the same. The short drive to the carriage house was enough to fill Tywin’s lungs in the freshened, yet damp, evening air and he was thankful for the gloom. He wished that he was back in that train car, thrusting his avarice into Sansa’s tightened body, but it was not the time for him to remanence. Not now. 

An ugly deed needed to be tended to. 

The carriage stopped at the stable and Tywin looked at the kerosene lamps glow inside. He very unceremoniously bit the end off of his cigar and spat out the tobacco. Puffing against the lit match, Tywin finally felt the smoke fill his mouth and it eased his nerves. Clegane jumped from the carriage faster than Tywin could climb and he could hear the angry and quick grunts as the stable boy was told to “fuck off for a while.” The boy didn’t even linger for a tossed coin; he scuttled away as quickly as he could. 

Tywin let Clegane lead him through the massive stable, smoke curling past his lips as if he was an angered dragon. The horses watched them with big doe-eyes, black with long lashes. The building had been re-built and remodeled nearly fifteen years ago, the front stable being added on to the old, original one. A sliding wooden door connected the two in the back, padlocked typically. It had been used to store old carriages and carriage parts, in case repairs needed to be made. 

Taking a kerosene lamp from the wall, Tywin waited as Sandor took out a large ring of keys and pushed one into the padlock. Turning, they were met with a metallic click and the lock fell open. He slid the door and took the lamp from his boss, leading the way. Tywin ignored the dust, straw, and mice droppings that he was stepping on and focused only on Clegane’s large back as he moved through the old stable. 

Then, through the dust and gloom, the two men stopped in the midst of the cloth-covered spare parts and the mindless junk, the tip of Tywin’s cigar glowing like an ember. A support beam shot from the floor all the way up to the ceiling, an old and sturdy thing that had begun to grow splinters from lack of treatment. Clegane stepped to the side and Tywin moved forward, looking down with distaste at the hunched and small form of Petyr Baelish. The petite man sat with his arms bound behind him around the pole. His head was tipped back against the beam and he didn’t stir as they approached. In the glow of the lamp, Tywin noted his broken nose and swollen lip, the purple of the bruising tinged in the sickly yellow of healing. 

“Wake up, Baelish.” 

Through the thick cotton of his ears, Petyr heard his name. The voice was low and quiet, oozing with a lethality that made his guts churn with unease. He was afraid of what he would see when he opened his eyes, so instead he thought of the pain in his head and the tackiness of old blood plastered to the side of his scalp, pulling at his hair. It was hard to breathe, his nose felt swollen and he found himself panting like an injured dog. Finally, Baelish opened his eyes and found himself looking up at Tywin Lannister while his man Clegane loomed in the background. 

“I thought you quit cigars,” Petyr slurred, his tongue fat and lazy in his bruised mouth. 

The end glowed red with an annoyed pull from Tywin’s lungs. He took it from his mouth and held it between his jeweled fingers. “You stole from me, Baelish. And you lied to me, you stupid little prick.” Tywin said after blowing the thick smoke up towards the rafters. 

Baelish squinted up at him, his bruised skin making the rest of him look pale in the lamplight. Stubble clung messily to his jaw, contrasting from his usual manicured features. Even from feet away, Tywin could tell he stank. Sour sweat and dirty clothes. 

“And to top it off,” Tywin continued, “You made me look like a fool in front of Stannis Baratheon.” 

Petyr managed a shrug, wincing against the sore tendons of his shoulders. 

“How’d you do it?” 

“I spent time at Stannis’s factory. A bribe goes a long way to a metalworker. A press was made of your watermark. Then it was as simple as hiring a calligrapher.” 

Tywin puffed on his cigar. Baelish’s confession of just how easy it had been made his eye twitch. “What of the auditor?” Tywin asked, remembering the Baratheon’s side of the story. 

Petyr blinked. “Hired actor,” he muttered thickly. “Strode right in and played the part well.” 

“Have I not been good to you, Baelish?” Tywin suddenly barked, savoring the fear in Petyr’s eyes when his booming voice echoed through the dingy stable. “I’ve paid you handsomely, trusted you completely, let you dip your conniving little fingers into my books. Why this? Why not some secret little trick of skimming money?” 

“I thought I was smarter than you, Mr. Lannister,” Petyr confessed, eyes as wide as they could be against the swelling of his face. 

Again, Tywin had been doubted. It infuriated him and the smoke filling his mouth was doing little to quell his anger. He lunged at Petyr, rearing up with his long leg and he slammed the heel of his boot squarely against Baelish’s chest. The motion was quick, forceful and well-placed. The wind left Petyr’s lungs in a rush and all he could do was cough and sputter, gulping for oxygen to fill his stunned body. Clegane stepped back, watching quietly while Tywin towered above the choking Petyr. 

“Fucking proud of yourself now, eh?” Tywin sneered, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to not bite off more than you can chew?” 

Finally, cool air filled Petyr’s lungs and he took big, greedy gulps. His sternum ached with each breath and he winced. “You were never supposed to see what was happening,” he confessed, “it was a plan that would never even make a dent in your income.” 

“Oh, but see, it’s not about my income,” Tywin growled, taking a long pull on his cigar. “That’s what you fail to see.” 

Tywin crouched then, ignoring the slight tinge of his aging knees. He blew the smoke towards Baelish’s face and he crinkled his battered nose against the stink of the tobacco. Tywin’s green eyes caught whatever light they could and the flecks of gold only hardened his gaze. Petyr felt his heart thump against his sore ribcage. 

“If this was merely about my income or my money, you wouldn’t be here,” Tywin murmured very quietly. 

Baelish could barely hear him over the rushing of his own blood in his ears and with a sinking heart he realized that men who spoke softly were often the dangerous ones. He wished that Tywin had screamed. 

“No,” the Great Lion continued, his lips curling around his teeth as if he was snarling, “if this was solely about money, you’d be sitting in a jail cell, on a cot, awaiting a trial for laundering or fraud. You’d be eating slop and waiting for the judge to make a ruling, perhaps charge you a fine. Are you in a cell, Baelish?” 

Petyr’s head tipped backwards, the wooden beam sending small splinters into his scalp. He swallowed. “Please, Tywin-”

“Are you in a fucking cell?!” Tywin roared and Petyr jumped. 

“No!” 

The soft voice returned, almost as if Tywin was pleased with Petyr’s answer. “No, you’re tied to a beam in my back stable. People who insult me, humiliate me, they don’t end up in a cell.” 

“Please Tywin,” Petyr choked out, “please I never meant to insult you, I was just trying to make some money. I was a fool. If it wasn’t for that Stark girl you never would have-”

Petyr was interrupted by a sharp and stinging slap. With a smarting cheek, he watched as Tywin stood. He pointed to a barrel and Clegane moved it over so he could sit, legs crossed as if he were having tea with Petyr Baelish. His mouth was pressed in a hard and jagged line, the cigar smoking in his hand. He felt the fabric of Ms. Stark’s underclothes in his trouser pocket, but he ignored the slight lump. It was not the time. 

“In all honesty, I could not care less of whatever bullshit excuse you could provide me right now, Baelish,” Tywin drawled. “I’m just not interested. Your bridges have been burned by your own foolish hand and a match you couldn’t control.” 

The silence hung between the men like a smothering black sheet and Petyr found it hard to look at Tywin. His red-rimmed eyes kept flicking to Clegane. 

“The Starks are working with the Baratheons,” Petyr suddenly blurted, clawing at whatever could be considered a saving grace. His heart sank when Tywin barely blinked as he absorbed the news. He seemed unsurprised. Petyr tasted copper in his mouth and for the first time he noticed he had bit down on his cheek when Tywin had slapped him. 

Tywin cocked his head. “I have suspected that and will be working through it. I highly doubt that you would have been given any specific information that would benefit me. ” 

Mind racing, Petyr could not look away from Sandor Clegane. He knew that the man carried a pistol. And in truth, he knew nothing of what was going on between Stannis Baratheon and Ned Stark. All he knew was that the two had been talking, and that had been overheard information as he was bribing a metal worker. 

But he also knew just how dire his situation was. People had always whispered stories about the back stable at Casterly Rock. 

He went back to begging. “Please Tywin, I can pay it back. I’ll give you everything.” 

“That’s already the plan, Baelish,” Tywin mused, uncrossing his legs and standing up. He snapped his fingers to Clegane and he approached, reaching into his waistcoat pocket. Baelish’s mouth went dry as he watched to see what would be withdrawn. But then he became surprised when he recognized it as a folded stack of papers. “These documents state that everything you own, all assets, accounts, and possessions will now be property of Casterly Rail.” 

Petyr paled, the bruises on his body standing out like bright splotches of paint. “Please, Tywin, don’t do this, I have the money.” 

“We’ve already established that this is not about the money, Baelish! Have you not been listening?” 

Clegane handed the papers to Tywin, who continued. “I’m no fool. I know you’ve been running less than desirable business out of properties that you’ve acquired thanks to my paychecks. The world’s oldest profession has padded your pockets more than you’ve led on. And now I’m going to have all of it. Everything.” 

“You can’t do this….” Petyr pleaded, straining against his binds until his muscles screamed. “You can’t do this! You already have everything! Punish me, take back my repayment, but don’t take everything I’ve worked so hard to build.” 

Tywin darkened, smoke trailing out of his nose and lips. He regarded Petyr with even more disdain and judgement in the wake of his pleading. Baelish was trying to paint a flattering picture of his ambition, of his desire for business, as if he and Tywin were similar. Two hard-working men clambering their way up the muddy hill in the chase of success. But they were so vastly different that Baelish was insulting Tywin with the thought that the two could be comparable enough for his salvation. He was a sly and sticky-fingered little thief, taking advantage of man’s carnal urges when he couldn’t skim enough money off of Tywin’s books. The brothels had made him wealthy, but there was no work involved. No calculating and no wars. And Baelish’s new money wealth had convinced him that he was good at this game, he was clever enough to play with the likes of Tywin or Stannis, when in actuality he was no better than the stinking lot of the rest of the world. 

And the worst of it all was the thought of Petyr Baelish sitting back in his chair thinking that he had gotten away with everything and that the Old Lion was too tired and docile to find him out. 

It was a game that Baelish would never play again. 

“I’m not doing this. You are.” Tywin replied, nodding to Clegane who came around and began untie Petyr’s wrists. Tywin handed the papers to Baelish along with a pen. “Sign them.” 

Petyr paused, looking past the two men towards the direction of the door, his legs screaming with the instinct to flee. The metallic click of a pistol brought his attention to Clegane. Petyr looked down the barrel of the big man’s gun and felt ice settle in his stomach. With a shaking hand, Petyr began to sign the documents, not even bothering to read them. He knew he was done, there would be nothing left and he didn’t need to feel the sting of reading all of his assets on paper. When he was finished, his eyes were shining with tears. He handed the paper back to Tywin, who tucked it into his waistcoat. 

Petyr opened his mouth, “There…it’s done. Now let me go.” 

Tywin ignored him fully, snapping his fingers to Clegane again before pointing to a burlap tarp that was draped over several carriage wheels. Petyr stood frozen as he watched Sandor pull it off with a flurry of dust and shake it out until it laid flat on the ground. He felt his chest constricting as he looked at the sheet and what it meant. Sandor’s big hand clamped over Baelish’s shoulder and pushed him towards the tarp. Tywin had stepped back. 

Away from the mess. 

Petyr began to thrash, waving his arms and struggling to get away. Clegane wrapped a big arm around his throat, restraining the much smaller man without any trouble. Tywin watched, his chin raised and face impassive before he stepped back even further. He shouted over the frantic noises of Baelish’s struggle while he gently nudged the kerosene lamp away from the tarp with a cautious foot. 

“It’s truly a wonder, how gracious you are signing over all of your possessions before your untimely death. What a convenient decision you made for the sake of the company.” 

“Fuck you!” Baelish managed to spit out, ripping at Clegane’s arm with his hands. 

The insult meant nothing. 

“Clegane,” Tywin said as he watched Sandor hold the pistol to Petyr’s head with his free hand. Baelish’s eyes widened even further when he felt the cold metal of the barrel press against his skin and he bared his teeth as he tried to struggle. 

Sandor looked to his boss. 

Tywin sniffed before making a sharp nod behind him, towards the general direction of the estate. “Don’t use the gun. Something quieter.” 

Clegane almost looked annoyed by the request, but he was going to oblige. He shoved the gun in the back waistband of his pants. 

“Please…please Tywin,” Petyr pleaded, spit running down his chin as he wrestled against Clegane’s arm. Begging was all he had left and he did not know what else to do. His heart was beating frantically like a rabbit in a snare. Fighting was useless. 

“Do you still think you’re smarter than me, Baelish?” Tywin drawled, puffing on his cigar. He was nearly finished with it and he savored the smoke as he watched he smaller man thrash. 

“No, no…no,” Petyr stuttered. He was turning red, Clegane was tightening his arm against Baelish’s windpipe and his vision was speckled with white little dots. The only thing he heard was his own pleading and the blood in his ears, shooting up to his temples and making his head ache. 

Tywin had grown tired of watching. He met Clegane’s eyes and gave a solemn nod. “End it.” 

Clegane nodded, his face scrunched with the effort it was taking to restrain Baelish. He reached up and in one quick and fluid movement, Sandor violently snapped Petyr’s neck. Tywin did not look away as the thrashing and the fighting abruptly ceased and he went still, slipping from Clegane’s grip and crumpling down onto the tarp. His eyes had stayed open. Tywin’s throat itched for a drink and he dropped the end of his cigar, grinding it out beneath his heel. 

“Send someone to have him buried in the Fingers,” Tywin muttered, looking down at the body. “And tell them he was in a carriage accident.” 

“Aye,” Sandor huffed, regaining his breath. 

Tywin didn’t ask if he was alright because it would be a waste. He had watched, he knew Clegane was unscathed. “Go back inside to Ms. Stark’s room,” Tywin instructed instead. “Send Swyft and Payne out here to clean up and get him out of here.” 

Sandor nodded and moved through the storage stable. Tywin reached to another draped sheet and tossed it over Baelish’s lifeless body. Then, he picked up the lantern and walked out, leaving the thief there until he could be properly bundled up and shipped out. 

As he stalked back to the estate, now glittering in the night, Tywin felt like one thorn had been plucked from his side, but he still felt the piercing of dozens more. In the dark, Tywin Lannister reached into his back pocket and fished out the smallclothes. He felt sinful, reaching for them in the wake of what he had just done, but he needed to feel something good on his skin. Otherwise the Old Lion would be consumed with the culpability of taking another man’s life. It had been many years since he had nipped a problem in the bud that way and he had never found joy in it. However, it was true...it had gotten easier with each time. But Baelish wasn’t just a burglar that had been caught in the home or a vandal…he was someone that Tywin had hired. Trusted. And though Sandor had offered to take care of the problem while they were away, Tywin knew it was his responsibility to address things in person. 

Sometimes, Tywin wished it was simply about the money. Then he could have just sent Baelish away in a jail cart and off to a cell. But he had done so much more to scorn Tywin and he knew he couldn’t allow it. The choice was made the second Baelish had allowed Stannis Baratheon to come to Casterly and witness Tywin act a fool. 

But now, as he strode through the dark with a lantern in one hand and Sansa’s knickers in the other, he knew he was no longer a fool. But freezing the rails and killing the thief wasn’t enough. Wouldn’t be enough. Even the feeling of Sansa Stark’s body hadn’t been enough. 

Tomorrow, Tywin Lannister was going to plan his offense.


End file.
